“To be sure, old friend,” Levin agreed, stroking her hair. “As capable and intelligent as she is—”
Boom! A rafter cracked above the apse, and a displaced I/Lumiére/7 hurtled down from above.
“Master, let us remove you from this place.”
* * *
Twenty minutes later, outside the rubble of the church, the surviving officiant concluded the ceremony in a melancholy spirit. Kitty and Levin stood with laced hands, bruised and tearful, but unwilling—in the ancient Russian spirit—to let the terrorists of UnConSciya ruin their sacred day of union.
And so the old priest turned to the bridal pair and began: “Eternal God, who joinest together in love those who were separate,” he said in a sad, piping voice, as voices wailed in the background, “who hast ordained the union of holy wedlock that cannot be set asunder, Thou who didst bless Isaac and Rebecca and their descendants, according to Thy Holy Covenant; bless Thy servants, Konstantin and Ekaterina, leading them in the path of all good works. For gracious and merciful art Thou, our Lord, and glory be to Thee, the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost, now and ever shall be.”
Even as the ancient words were intoned, within the church the ragged and helpless victims awaited the inevitable arrival of a Caretaker with his troupe of 77s, who always arrived in the aftermath of such horrors. They wept for their injuries, for the continued plague of UnConSciya upon society; and they wept bitterly that their Class Ills had not been there to protect them, and were not there now to lend them support and comfort.
* * *
The violent disorder of his wedding day could not help but have its effect on Konstantin Dmitrich’s romantic ideas about marriage, and the life he was now to lead. Levin felt more and more that all his ideas of marriage, all his dreams of how he would order his life, were mere childishness, and that it was something he had not understood hitherto, and now understood less than ever, though it was being performed upon him. The lump in his throat rose higher and higher; tears that would not be checked came into his eyes.
After supper, the same night, the young people left for the country.
CHAPTER 4
VRONSKY AND ANNA had been traveling for three months together on the surface of the moon. They had visited the Mare Tranquillitatis and the famous canals of St. Catherine, and had just arrived at a hotel, part of the small farside colony where they meant to stay some time.
A Moonie, one of the weird, wiry Class IIs with bulbous glowing head units employed in nearly all man-serving positions on the moon’s surface, stood with his hands in the full curve of his silver outercoating, giving some frigid reply to a gentleman in a coarse engineer’s jumpsuit who had stopped him. Catching the sound of footsteps coming from the other side of the entry toward the staircase, the Moonie swiveled his big, bright ball of a head and, seeing the Russian count, who had taken their best rooms, with a bow informed him that a communiqué had been received: the business about the module he and his companion planned to rent had all been arranged.
“Ah! I’m glad to hear it,” said Vronsky. “Is madame at home or not?”
“Madame . . . went out for walk . . . but returned now,” answered the Class II in the distinctive stop-start manner of the Moonie.
Vronsky took off his soft, wide-brimmed hat and passed his handkerchief over his heated brow and hair, which had grown half over his ears, and was brushed back covering the bald patch on his head. And glancing casually at the gentleman, who still stood there gazing intently at him, he almost moved on.
“This gentleman . . . a Russian . . . inquiring after you.”
With mingled feelings of annoyance at never being able to get away from acquaintances anywhere, and longing to find some sort of diversion from the monotony of his life, Vronsky looked over at the gentleman, who had retreated and stood still again. Lupo, instinctually distrustful of strangers, leaned back on his haunches and bared his teeth at the stranger; but Vronsky, recognizing the man, whistled a sharp “stand down” to his Class III and smiled broadly.
“Golenishtchev!”
“Vronsky!”
Surprising though it was, it really was Golenishtchev, a comrade of Vronsky’s from the Corps of Pages. Golenishtchev and Vronsky had gone completely different ways on leaving the corps, and had only met once since, and had not gotten along. But now they beamed and exclaimed with delight on recognizing one another. Vronsky would never have expected to be so pleased to see Golenishtchev, but probably he was not himself aware how bored he was, so many space-versts from home, with only Anna for human company. With a face of frank delight he held out his hand to his old comrade, and the same expression of delight replaced the look of uneasiness on Golenishtchev’s face.
“How glad I am to meet you!” said Vronsky, showing his strong white teeth in a friendly smile.
“I heard the name Vronsky, but I didn’t know which one. I’m very, very glad!”
“Let’s go in. Come, tell me what you’re doing.”
“Digging, friend! Digging and digging and digging.”
Now Vronsky understood the reason for the dust-caked jumpsuit; Golenishtchev, a trained excavation and extraction engineer, had received a license from the Ministry’s Extra-Orbital Branch to plumb huge tracts of the lunar surface in search of the Miracle Metal—on the theory that, if it had mysteriously appeared in the Russian soil, and if the Russians in their ingeniousness had utilized groznium-derived technologies to land men on the moon, surely the Miracle Metal would one day be found there as well; although, Golenishtchev reported with a sad shrug, so far he had found only moon-rocks and dust.
“Ah!” said Vronsky, with sympathy, before deciding to broach the difficult subject, which he knew would come up sooner or later with any acquaintance. “Do you know Madame Karenina? We are traveling together. I am going to see her now,” he said, carefully scrutinizing Golenishtchev’s face.
“Ah! I did not know,” Golenishtchev answered carelessly, though he did know, and excused himself to ask a question of the obsequious Moonie.
“Yes, he’s a decent fellow, and will look at the thing properly,” Vronsky said happily to Lupo. “I can introduce him to Anna, he looks at it properly.”
During these weeks that Vronsky had spent on the moon, he had always on meeting new people asked himself how the new person would look at his relations with Anna, and for the most part, in men, he had met with the “proper” way of looking at it. But if either he or those who looked at it “properly” had been asked exactly how they did look at it, both he and they would have been greatly puzzled to answer.
In reality, those who in Vronsky’s opinion had the “proper” view had no sort of view at all, but behaved in general as well-bred persons do behave in regard to all the complex and insoluble problems with which life is encompassed on all sides; they behaved with propriety, avoiding allusions and unpleasant questions. They assumed an air of fully comprehending the import and force of the situation, of accepting and even approving of it, but of considering it superfluous and uncalled for to put all this into words.
Vronsky at once divined that Golenishtchev was of this class, and therefore was doubly pleased to see him. And in fact, Golenishtchev’s manner toward Madame Karenina and her android, when he was taken to call on them, was all that Vronsky could have desired. Obviously without the slightest effort he steered clear of all subjects that might lead to embarrassment. He had never met Anna before, and was struck by her beauty and the sleek lines of her beloved-companion, and still more by the frankness with which the woman accepted her position. She blushed when Vronsky brought in the rough-hewn Golenishtchev, his everlit helmet dangling from its chinstrap, his I/Shovelhoe/40(b) clanking at his side, and he was extremely charmed by this childish blush overspreading her candid and handsome face. But what he liked particularly was the way in which at once, as though on purpose that there might be no misunderstanding with an outsider, she called Vronsky simply Alexei, and said they were moving into a house they had just taken, wha
t was here called a module. Golenishtchev liked this direct and simple attitude toward her own position. Looking at Anna’s manner of simple-hearted, spirited gaiety, Golenishtchev fancied that he understood her perfectly. He fancied that he understood what she was utterly unable to understand: how it was that, having made her husband wretched, having abandoned him and her son and lost her good name, she yet felt full of spirits, gaiety, and happiness.
“I tell you what: it’s a lovely day, let’s go and have another look at the module,” said Vronsky, addressing Anna.
“I shall be very glad to; I’ll go and find my helmet. And how is the gravity today?” she said, stopping short in the doorway and looking inquiringly at Vronsky. Again a vivid flush overspread her face.
Vronsky saw from the way her eyes would not meet his, resting instead on Android Karenina’s reassuring and familiar faceplate, that she did not know on what terms he cared to be with Golenishtchev, and so was afraid of not behaving as he would wish.
He looked a long, tender look at her. “The gravity is extremely fine,” he said. “All that could be wished for.”
And it seemed to her that she understood everything, most of all that he was pleased with her; and smiling to him, she walked with her rapid step out the door, Android Karenina whizzing along with equal confidence behind her. Vronsky and his old acquaintance glanced at one another, and a look of hesitation came into both faces, as though Golenishtchev, unmistakably admiring her, would have liked to say something about her, and could not find the right thing to say, while Vronsky desired and dreaded his doing so.
ANNA EMERGED IN PERAMBULATING TOGS, HER PALE AND LOVELY HAND HOLDING THE HANDLE OF HER DAINTY LADIES’-SIZE OXYGEN TANK
Anna excused herself to put on her perambulating togs. It was a rather cumbersome and complicated outfit, but every piece was entirely necessary: the oxygen tanks; the heavy, treaded boots; the asbestos-lined undersuit; and of course the sturdy, airtight helmet of reinforced glass. When Anna emerged, her stylish feathered hat bent to fit inside the dome of the helmet, her pale and lovely hand holding the handle of her dainty ladies’-size oxygen tank, it was with a feeling of relief that Vronsky broke away from the plaintive eyes of Golenishtchev, and with a fresh rush of love looked at his charming companion, full of life and happiness.
They walked to the module they had reserved, and looked over it, Golenishtchev pompously taking the role of chief inspector, carefully examining the sealing systems and hatches, having vastly more experience than they with lunar living.
“I am very glad of one thing,” said Anna to Golenishtchev when they were on their way back. “Alexei will have a capital atelier. You must certainly take that module,” she said to Vronsky in Russian, using the affectionately familiar form as though she saw that Golenishtchev would become intimate with them in their isolation, and that there was no need of reserve before him.
“Do you paint?” said Golenishtchev, turning round quickly to Vronsky.
“Yes, I used to study long ago, and now I have begun to do a little,” said Vronsky, reddening.
“He has great talent,” said Anna with a delighted smile, and Lupo yipped his proud agreement. “I’m no judge, of course. But good judges have said the same.”
CHAPTER 5
ANNA, IN THAT PERIOD of her emancipation and rapid return to health, after her dangerous confinement and delivery, had felt herself unpardonably happy and full of the joy of life. The memory of all that had happened after her illness: her reconciliation with her husband, its breakdown, the news of Vronsky’s wound, his visit, the preparations for divorce, the departure from her husband’s house, the parting from her son, traveling to the moon inside an ovoid canister shot from a giant cannon—all that seemed to her like a delirious dream, from which she had woken up alone with Vronsky on the lunar surface. The thought of the harm caused to her husband aroused in her a feeling like repulsion, and akin to what a drowning man might feel who has shaken off another man clinging to him. That man did drown. It was an evil action, of course, but it was the sole means of escape, and better not to brood over these fearful facts.
One consolatory reflection upon her conduct had occurred to her at the first moment of the final rupture, and when now she recalled all the past, she remembered that one reflection. “I have inevitably made that man wretched, but I don’t want to profit by his misery,” she mused, while Android Karenina’s slim fingers braided her hair into charming plaits. “I too am suffering, and shall suffer; I am losing what I prized above everything—I am losing my good name and my son. I have done wrong, and so I don’t want happiness, I don’t want a divorce, and shall suffer from my shame and the separation from my child.”
Android Karenina nodded kindly, her eyebank glittering from deep red to sympathetic lilac. But she knew as well as her mistress that, although Anna had expected to suffer, she was not suffering. Shame there was not. She and Vronsky had never placed themselves in a false position, and everywhere they had met people who pretended that they perfectly understood their position, far better indeed than they did themselves. It was not by accident that they had traveled to the moon, a permissive enclave where judgment, along with gravity, held only a fraction of its usual force. Separation from the son she loved—even that did not cause her anguish in these early days. The baby girl—his child—was so sweet, and had so won Anna’s heart, since she was all that was left to her, that Anna rarely thought of her son.
The desire for life, waxing stronger with recovered health, was so intense, and the conditions of life were so new and pleasant, that Anna felt unpardonably happy. The more she got to know Vronsky, the more she loved him. She loved him for himself, and for his love for her. Her complete ownership of him was a continual joy to her. His presence was always sweet to her. All the traits of his character, which she learned to know better and better, were unutterably dear to her. His appearance, changed by his civilian dress, was as fascinating to her as though she were some young girl in love. In everything he said, thought, and did, she saw something particularly noble and elevated; she cherished a childish vision of Vronsky and Lupo as of a paladin and his steed. Her adoration of him alarmed her indeed; she sought and could not find in him anything not fine. She dared not show him her sense of her own insignificance beside him. It seemed to her that, knowing this, he might sooner cease to love her; and she dreaded nothing now so much as losing his love, though she had no grounds for fearing it. But she could not help being grateful to him for his attitude toward her, and showing that she appreciated it. He, who had in her opinion such a marked aptitude for a regimental career, in which he would have been certain to play a leading part—he had sacrificed his ambition for her sake, and never betrayed the slightest regret. He was more lovingly respectful to her than ever, and the constant care that she should not feel the awkwardness of her position never deserted him for a single instant. He, so manly a man, never opposed her, had indeed, with her, no will of his own, and was anxious, it seemed, for nothing but to anticipate her wishes. And she could not but appreciate this, even though the very intensity of his solicitude for her, the atmosphere of care with which he surrounded her, sometimes weighed upon her.
Vronsky, meanwhile, in spite of the complete realization of what he had so long desired, was not perfectly happy. He soon felt that the realization of his desires gave him no more than a grain of sand out of the mountain of happiness he had expected. It showed him the mistake men make in picturing to themselves happiness as the realization of their desires. For a time after joining his life to hers, after unwinding the hot-whip from his thigh and donning civilian dress, he had felt all the delight of freedom in general of which he had known nothing before, and of freedom in his love—and he was content, but not for long. He was soon aware that there was springing up in his heart a desire for desires—ennui. He longed for the camaraderie of the battlefield, missed the sparks and the heat and fog of combat, missed the clang of the Exterior door swinging shut behind him, missed the weight of a sm
oker in his hand. Without conscious intention he began to clutch at every passing caprice, taking it for a desire and an object. Sixteen hours of the day must be occupied in some way, since they were living in complete freedom, outside the conditions of social life that filled up time in Petersburg. As for the amusements of bachelor existence, which had provided Vronsky with entertainment on previous extra-atmospheric sojourns, they could not be thought of, since his sole attempt of that sort had led to a sudden attack of depression in Anna, quite out of proportion with the cause—a late game of lunar croquet with bachelor friends.
Relations with the society of the place—foreign and Russian—were equally out of the question owing to the irregularity of their position. The inspection of the various panoramas, of Earth’s blue-green magnificence or the starry sprawl of distant galaxies, had not for Vronsky, a Russian and a sensible man, the immense significance Englishmen are able to attach to that pursuit.
And just as the hungry stomach eagerly accepts every object it can get, hoping to find nourishment in it, Vronsky quite unconsciously clutched first at politics, then at new books, and then at pictures. He began to understand the semi-mystical art of painting with groznium-based pigments, how the artist could push the little pools of color around the canvas with subtle flicks of the brush, how the individual droplets would attract each other, creating luminous patterns as singular as fingerprints or snowflakes. Vronsky concentrated on these studies; with this technique he began to paint Anna’s portrait in her boots and helmet, and the portrait seemed to him, and to everyone who saw it, extremely successful.
CHAPTER 6
THE OLD, NEGLECTED MODULE they had leased, with its lofty, hard-textile ceilings and off-white, dimly lit passageways, with its slow-sequencing, Earth-scenery monitor frames, its manual door locks and gloomy reception rooms—this base did much, by its very appearance after they had moved into it, to confirm in Vronsky the agreeable illusion that he was not so much a Russian country gentleman, a retired army officer, as an enlightened, bohemian “moon man” and patron of the arts, who had renounced his past, his connections, and his planet for the sake of the woman he loved.
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