by Anna Karenina (tr Richard Pevear, Larissa Volokhonsky) (Penguin Classics) (epub)
‘Whoever likes merging is welcome to it. I find it disgusting.’
‘I see, you’re decidedly a reactionary.’
‘Really, I’ve never thought about what I am. I’m Konstantin Levin, nothing more.’
‘And a Konstantin Levin who is badly out of sorts,’ said Stepan Arkadyich, smiling.
‘Yes, I’m out of sorts, and do you know why? Because of – forgive me – your stupid sale …’
Stepan Arkadyich winced good–naturedly, like a man hurt and upset without cause.
‘Well, come now!’ he said. ‘When did it ever happen that somebody sold something without being told right after the sale: "It was worth a lot more"? But while it’s for sale, no one offers … No, I see you have a bone to pick with this unfortunate Ryabinin.’
‘Maybe I do. And do you know why? You’ll say again that I’m a reactionary, or some other dreadful word like that; but all the same it’s vexing and upsetting for me to see on all sides this impoverishment of the nobility, to which I belong and, despite the merging of the classes, am glad to belong. And impoverishment not owing to luxury – that would be nothing. To live with largesse is a nobleman’s business, which only noblemen know how to do. Now muzhiks are buying up the land around us. That doesn’t upset me – the squire does nothing, the muzhik works and pushes out the idle man. It ought to be so. And I’m very glad for the muzhik. But it upsets me to see this impoverishment as a result of –I don’t know what to call it – innocence. Here a Polish tenant buys a beautiful estate at half price from a lady who lives in Nice. Here land worth ten roubles an acre is leased to a merchant for one. Here you gave that cheat a gift of thirty thousand for no reason at all.’
‘What, then? Count every tree?’
‘Certainly count them. You didn’t count them, but Ryabinin did. Ryabinin’s children will have the means to live and be educated, and yours may not!’
‘Well, excuse me, but there’s something petty in this counting. We have our occupations, they have theirs, and they need profits. Well, anyhow, the deal’s concluded, and there’s an end to it. And here are the fried eggs, my favourite way of doing them. And Agafya Mikhailovna will give us that wonderful herb liqueur …’
Stepan Arkadyich sat down at the table and began joking with Agafya Mikhailovna, assuring her that he had not eaten such a dinner or supper for a long time.
‘You praise it at least,’ said Agafya Mikhailovna, ‘but Konstantin Dmitrich, whatever you serve him, even a crust of bread, he just eats it and walks out.’
Hard as Levin tried to master himself, he was gloomy and silent. He had to ask Stepan Arkadyich one question, but he could not resolve to ask it and could not find either the form or the moment. Stepan Arkadyich had already gone to his room downstairs, undressed, washed again, put on his coffered nightshirt and got into bed, but Levin still lingered in his room, talking about various trifles, and could not bring himself to ask what he wanted to ask.
‘How amazingly they make soap,’ he said, examining and unwrapping a fragrant cake of soap that Agafya Mikhailovna had put out for the guest but that Oblonsky had not used. ‘Just look, it’s a work of art.’
‘Yes, all sorts of improvements have been made in everything,’ said Stepan Arkadyich, with a moist and blissful yawn. ‘The theatres, for instance, and these amusement … a–a–ah!’ he yawned. ‘Electric light everywhere … a–a–ah!’[24]
‘Yes, electric light,’ said Levin. ‘Yes. Well, and where is Vronsky now?’ he said, suddenly putting down the soap.
‘Vronsky?’ asked Stepan Arkadyich, suppressing a yawn. ‘He’s in Petersburg. He left soon after you did and hasn’t come to Moscow once since then. And you know, Kostya, I’ll tell you the truth,’ he continued, leaning his elbow on the table and resting on his hand his handsome, ruddy face, from which two unctuous, kindly and sleepy eyes shone like stars. ‘It was your own fault. You got frightened by your rival. And as I told you then, I don’t know which side had the greater chances. Why didn’t you just push right through? I told you then that…’ He yawned with his jaws only, not opening his mouth.
‘Does he know I proposed, or doesn’t he?’ thought Levin, looking at him. ‘Yes, there’s something sly and diplomatic in his face,’ and, feeling himself blushing, he silently looked straight into Stepan Arkadyich’s eyes.
‘If there was anything on her part then, it’s that she was carried away by externals,’ Oblonsky continued. ‘That perfect aristocratism, you know, and the future position in society affected not her but her mother.’
Levin frowned. The offence of the refusal he had gone through burned his heart like a fresh, just–received wound. He was at home, and at home even the walls help.
‘Wait, wait,’ he began, interrupting Oblonsky. ‘Aristocratism, you say. But allow me to ask, what makes up this aristocratism of Vronsky or whoever else it may be – such aristocratism that I can be scorned? You consider Vronsky an aristocrat, but I don’t. A man whose father crept out of nothing by wiliness, whose mother, God knows who she didn’t have liaisons with … No, excuse me, but I consider myself an aristocrat and people like myself, who can point to three or four honest generations in their families’ past, who had a high degree of education (talent and intelligence are another thing), and who never lowered themselves before anyone, never depended on anyone, as my father lived, and my grandfather. And I know many like that. You find it mean that I count the trees in the forest, while you give away thirty thousand to Ryabinin; but you’ll have rent coming in and I don’t know what else, while I won’t, and so I value what I’ve inherited and worked for … We’re the aristocrats, and not someone who can only exist on hand–outs from the mighty of this world and can be bought for twenty kopecks.’
‘But who are you attacking? I agree with you,’ Stepan Arkadyich said sincerely and cheerfully, though he felt that Levin included him among those who could be bought for twenty kopecks. He sincerely liked Levin’s animation. ‘Who are you attacking? Though much of what you say about Vronsky is untrue, that’s not what I’m talking about. I’ll tell you straight out, if I were you I’d go with me to Moscow and …’ ‘No, I don’t know whether you’re aware of it or not, and it makes no difference to me, but I’ll tell you – I made a proposal and received a refusal, and for me Katerina Alexandrovna is now a painful and humiliating memory.’
‘Why? That’s nonsense!’
‘Let’s not talk about it. Forgive me, please, if I was rude to you,’ said Levin. Now, having said everything, he became again the way he had been in the morning. ‘You’re not angry with me, Stiva? Please don’t be angry,’ he said and, smiling, took him by the hand.
‘No, not in the least, and there’s no reason. I’m glad we’ve had a talk. And you know, morning shooting can be good. Why don’t we go? I won’t even sleep, I’ll go straight from shooting to the station.’
‘Splendid.’
XVIII
Though the whole of Vronsky’s inner life was filled with his passion, his external life rolled inalterably and irresistibly along the former, habitual rails of social and regimental connections and interests. Regimental interests occupied an important place in Vronsky’s life, because he loved his regiment and still more because he was loved in the regiment. They not only loved him, they also respected him and were proud of him, proud that this enormously wealthy man, with an excellent education and abilities, with an open path to every sort of success, ambition and vanity, disdained it all and of all interests in life took closest to heart the interests of his regiment and his comrades. Vronsky was aware of their view of him and, besides the fact that he liked that life, also felt it his duty to maintain the established view of himself.
It goes without saying that he never spoke with any of his comrades about his love, did not let it slip even during the wildest drinking parties (however, he never got so drunk as to lose control of himself), and stopped the mouths of those of his light–minded comrades who tried to hint at his liaison. But, in spite of that,
his love was known to the whole town – everyone had guessed more or less correctly about his relations with Mme Karenina – and the majority of the young men envied him precisely for what was most difficult in his love, for Karenin’s high position and the resulting conspicuousness of this liaison in society.
The majority of young women, envious of Anna and long since weary of her being called righteous, were glad of what they surmised and only waited for the turnabout of public opinion to be confirmed before they fell upon her with the full weight of their scorn. They were already preparing the lumps of mud they would fling at her when the time came. The majority of older and more highly placed people were displeased by this impending social scandal.
Vronsky’s mother, on learning of his liaison, was pleased at first –both because nothing, to her mind, gave the ultimate finish to a brilliant young man like a liaison in high society, and because Anna, whom she had liked so much, who had talked so much about her son, was after all just like all other beautiful and decent women, to Countess Vronsky’s mind. But recently she had learned that her son had refused a post offered to him and important for his career, only in order to stay in the regiment and be able to see Anna, had learned that highly placed people were displeased with him for that, and had changed her opinion. Nor did she like it that, judging by all she had learned of this liaison, it was not a brilliant, graceful society liaison, of which she would have approved, but some sort of desperate Wertherian[25] passion, as she had been told, which might draw him into foolishness. She had not seen him since the time of his unexpected departure from Moscow, and demanded through his older brother that he come to see her.
The elder brother was also displeased with the younger. He did not care what sort of love it was, great or small, passionate or unpassionate, depraved or not depraved (he himself, though he had children, kept a dancer, and was therefore indulgent about such things); but he knew that this love displeased those whose good pleasure was necessary, and he therefore disapproved of his brother’s behaviour.
Besides the service and society, Vronsky had one more occupation –horses, of which he was a passionate fancier.
That year an officers’ steeplechase was planned. Vronsky signed up for the race, bought an English thoroughbred mare and, in spite of his love, was passionately, though restrainedly, carried away with the forthcoming races …
These two passions did not interfere with each other. On the contrary, he needed an occupation and an enthusiasm not dependent on his love, in which he could refresh himself and rest from impressions that excited him too much.
XIX
On the day of the Krasnoe Selo [26] races, Vronsky came earlier than usual to eat his beefsteak in the common room of the regimental mess. He did not need to maintain himself too strictly, because his weight was exactly the regulation hundred and sixty pounds; but he also had not to gain any weight, and so he avoided starches and sweets. He was sitting in a jacket unbuttoned over a white waistcoat, both elbows leaning on the table, and, while awaiting the beefsteak he had ordered, was looking into a French novel that lay open on his plate. He looked into the book only to avoid having to talk with the officers going in and out while he was thinking.
He was thinking that Anna had promised to arrange to meet him that day after the races. But he had not seen her for three days, and, since her husband had returned from abroad, he did not know whether it was possible that day or not, and did not know how to find it out. The last time he had seen her was at his cousin Betsy’s country house. To the Karenins’ country house he went as seldom as possible. Now he wanted to go there and was pondering the question of how to do it.
‘Of course, I can say that Betsy sent me to ask if she was coming to the races. Of course I’ll go,’ he decided to himself, raising his head from the book. And, as he vividly pictured to himself the happiness of seeing her, his face lit up.
‘Send to my place and tell them to harness the carriage quickly,’ he said to the servant who brought him the beefsteak on a hot silver dish, and, drawing the dish towards him, he began to eat.
From the next room came talk and laughter and the click of billiard balls. At the entrance two officers appeared: one young, with a weak, thin face, who had come to the regiment from the Corps of Pages not long ago; the other a plump old officer with a bracelet on his wrist and puffy little eyes.
Vronsky glanced at them, frowned and, as if not noticing them, looked sideways at the book and began to eat and read at the same time.
‘Fortifying yourself before work?’ said the plump officer, sitting down near him.
‘As you see,’ said Vronsky, frowning and wiping his mouth without looking at him.
‘Not afraid of gaining weight ?’ the first said, offering the young officer a chair.
‘What?’ Vronsky said angrily, making a grimace of disgust and showing his solid row of teeth.
‘Not afraid of gaining weight?’
‘Sherry, boy!’ Vronsky said without replying, and, moving the book to the other side, he went on reading.
The plump officer took the wine list and turned to the young officer.
‘You choose what we’ll drink,’ he said, handing him the list and looking at him.
‘Maybe Rhine wine,’ the young officer said, timidly casting a sidelong glance at Vronsky and trying to grasp his barely grown moustache in his fingers. Seeing that Vronsky did not turn, the young officer stood up.
‘Let’s go to the billiard room,’ he said.
The plump officer obediently stood up, and they went to the door.
Just then the tall and well–built cavalry captain Yashvin came into the room and, giving the two officers a scornful toss of the head, went over to Vronsky.
‘Ah, here he is!’ he cried, slapping him hard on the epaulette with his big hand. Vronsky turned angrily, but his face at once lit up with his own special, calm and firm gentleness.
‘That’s wise, Alyosha,’ the captain said in a loud baritone. ‘Eat now and drink a little glass.’
‘I don’t want to eat.’
‘There go the inseparables,’ Yashvin added, looking mockingly at the two officers who at that moment were leaving the room. And he sat down beside Vronsky, his thighs and shins, much too long for the height of the chairs, bending at a sharp angle in their tight breeches. ‘Why didn’t you come to the Krasnoe Theatre last night? Numerova wasn’t bad at all. Where were you?’
‘I stayed late at the Tverskoys’,’ replied Vronsky.
‘Ah!’ responded Yashvin.
Yashvin, a gambler, a carouser, a man not merely without any principles, but with immoral principles – Yashvin was Vronsky’s best friend in the regiment. Vronsky loved him for his extraordinary physical strength, which the man usually showed by his ability to drink like a fish, go without sleep and yet remain the same, and for his great force of character, which he showed in his relations with his superiors and comrades, making himself feared and respected, and at cards, where he staked tens of thousands and, despite the wine he drank, was always so subtle and steady that he was regarded as the foremost player in the English Club. Vronsky loved and respected him especially because he felt that Yashvin loved him not for his name or wealth but for himself. And of all people it was with him alone that Vronsky would have liked to talk about his love. He felt that Yashvin alone, though he seemed to scorn all feelings, could understand that strong passion which now filled his whole life. Besides, he was sure that Yashvin took no pleasure in gossip and scandal, but understood his feeling in the right way – that is, knew and believed that this love was not a joke, not an amusement, but something more serious and important.
Vronsky did not speak to him of his love, but he knew that he knew everything and understood everything in the right way, and he was pleased to see it in his eyes.
‘Ah, yes!’ he said in response to Vronsky’s having been at the Tverskoys’, and, flashing his black eyes, he took hold of the left side of his moustache and began twirling it into his mou
th – a bad habit of his.
‘Well, and what happened last night? Did you win?’ asked Vronsky.
