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‘Well then, Princess, let it be just as you think best,’ he said, turning away.

 

‘ “Heavy is the Autocrat’s crown!” [a quotation¹ from Pushkin’s Boris Godunov]’ said Oblonsky banteringly, evidently alluding² not only to the Princess’s conversation, but also to the cause of Levin’s agitation³, which he had observed. ‘How late you are to-day, Dolly!’

 

They all rose to greet Dolly. Vasenka only rose for a moment, and with the absence of politeness to women which is characteristic of modern young men, barely bowed and again continued his conversation, laughing at something.

 

‘Masha has worn me out. She slept badly and is terribly capricious this morning,’ said Dolly.

 

The conversation with Kitty begun by Vasenka again dealt with Anna and with the question whether love can rise above social conditions. This conversation was unpleasant to Kitty and upset her, both by the subject itself and by the tone in which it was carried on, but especially because she already knew the effect it would have on her husband. But she was too simple and innocent to know how to stop it, or even how to conceal⁴ the superficial pleasure which this young man’s evident attentions caused her. She wished to put an end to the conversation, but did not know how. Whatever she did, she knew, would be noticed by her husband and would all be construed⁵ into something wrong. And really when she asked Dolly what was the matter with Masha, and Vasenka — waiting for this uninteresting conversation to finish — gazed indifferently at Dolly, her question seemed to Levin a piece of unnatural⁶ and disgusting cunning.

 

‘Well, shall we go to pick mushrooms to-day?’ said Dolly.

 

‘Yes, please, and I will go too,’ said Kitty, and blushed. She had been going, out of politeness, to ask Vasenka whether he would go with them, but refrained. ‘Where are you going, Kostya?’ she asked her husband with a guilty look as he passed by with resolute⁷ steps. This guilty look confirmed all his suspicions.

 

‘The mechanic arrived during my absence and I have not yet seen him,’ he answered, without looking at her.

 

He went downstairs, but had not had time to leave his study before he heard his wife’s familiar footsteps following him with imprudent rapidity.

 

‘What is it?’ he asked drily. ‘We are busy.’

 

‘Excuse me,’ she said addressing the German mechanic, ‘I have a few words to say to my husband.’

 

The German was about to go out, but Levin said to him:

 

‘Don’t trouble!’

 

‘The train is at three?’ asked the German. ‘I must not miss it.’

 

Levin did not answer him but went out with his wife.

 

‘Well, what have you to say to me?’ he asked in French.

 

He did not look her in the face and did not notice that she (in her condition) stood with her whole face twitching⁸, and had a pitiful, crushed appearance.

 

‘I . . . I want to tell you that it’s impossible to live like this — it’s torture!’ she muttered.

 

‘The servants are there, in the pantry,’ he said angrily; ‘don’t make a scene.’

 

‘Well then, come here!’

 

They were in a passage, and Kitty wished to enter the next room; but the English governess was there, giving Tanya a lesson.

 

‘Well, come into the garden!’

 

In the garden they came upon a man weeding a path, and without any longer considering that the man saw her tear-stained eyes and his excited face, or that they looked like people running away from some calamity⁹, they went on with rapid feet, feeling that they must speak out and convince each other, must be alone together, and thereby¹⁰ both escape from the torment¹¹ both were experiencing.

 

‘One can’t live like this! It is torture! I suffer and you suffer. Why?’ she asked, when they had at last reached a secluded¹² seat at the corner of the lime-tree avenue.

 

‘Only tell me this: was there something improper¹³, impure¹⁴, degradingly horrid¹⁵ in his tone?’ he said, standing¹⁶ in front of her in the same attitude as on that night, with fists pressing his chest.

 

‘There was,’ she said in a trembling voice. ‘But, Kostya, do you really not see that I am not to blame? From the time I came down I wanted to adopt a tone . . . but these people . . . Why did he come? How happy we were!’ she said, choking with sobs¹⁷ that shook the whole of her expanded body.

 

The gardener saw with surprise that, though nothing had been pursuing them and there had been nothing to run away from, and they could not have found anything very blissful on that seat, they passed him on their way back to the house with quieted and beaming faces.

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter 15

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AFTER seeing his wife upstairs, Levin went to Dolly’s part of the house. She too was in great trouble that day. She was walking up and down the room and speaking angrily to a little girl who stood howling in a corner:

 

‘You’ll stand in that corner all day, and will have your dinner alone, and you will not see a single doll, and I won’t have a new frock made for you!’ she was saying, unable to think of any more punishments for the child.

 

‘Oh, she is a horrid child!’ she cried, addressing Levin. ‘Where do these vile tendencies in her come from?’

 

‘But what has she done?’ asked Levin rather indifferently. He wanted to consult her about his own affairs, and was annoyed at having come at an inopportune moment.

 

‘She and Grisha went away among the raspberry canes and there . . . I can’t even tell what she did. One regrets Miss Elliot a thousand times — this one does not look after the children; she’s only a machine. . . . Figurez vous que la petite . . . [Fancy! the child . . .]’

 

Dolly told Masha’s crime.

 

‘That proves nothing; it is not a bad tendency, but just mischievousness,’ Levin comforted her.

 

‘But you are upset about something? Why have you come?’ asked Dolly. ‘What’s happening there?’

 

And by the tone of her question Levin knew that it would be easy for him to tell her what he meant to say. ‘I was not there, but have been in the garden alone with Kitty. We have quarrelled for the second time since . . . Stiva’s arrival.’

 

Dolly gazed at him with wise, comprehending eyes.

 

‘Well, tell me, hand on heart — was there . . . not on Kitty’s side, but on that gentleman’s . . . a tone which might be unpleasant . . . not unpleasant but terrible and offensive to a husband?’

 

‘That is to say . . . how am I to put it? . . . Stop! Stop in the corner!’ she said turning to Masha, who noticing a scarcely perceptible smile on her mother’s face was turning round. ‘The world would say he has behaved as all young men behave. Il fait la cour à une jeune et jolie femme [He pays court to a young and pretty woman], and a Society husband should be merely flattered by it.’

 

‘Yes, yes,’ answered Levin gloomily, ‘but you noticed it?’

 

‘Not I only, but Stiva too. He told me frankly after tea: “Je crois que Veslovsky fait un petit brin de cour à Kitty! [I believe Veslovsky is courting Kitty a wee bit!]” ’

 

‘Well, all right, now I am tranquil. I will turn him out,’ said Levin.

 

‘What do you mean? Have you gone mad?’ exclaimed Dolly, terrified. ‘What do you mean, Kostya? Consider!’ she went on, laughing. ‘You can go to Fanny now,’ she said to Masha. ‘No, if you like I will tell Stiva and he will take him away. One can say you are expecting visitors. Certainly, he does not suit your household . . .’

 

‘No, no; I’ll do it myself.’

 

‘But you will quarrel?’

 

‘Not at all! It will be a pleasure for me, a real pleasure,’ said Levin with sparkling eyes. ‘Come, forgive her, Dolly! She won’t do it again,’ he pleaded, referring to the small culprit, who had not gone to Fanny, but stood hesitatingly before her mother, looking up from under her brows, expecting and trying to catch her eye.

 

Dolly looked at her. The little girl burst into sobs and buried her face in her mother’s lap, and Dolly placed her thin tender hand on the child’s head.

 

‘What is there in common between us and him?’ thought Levin, as he went in search of Veslovsky.

 

Passing through the hall he ordered the calèche to be harnessed to drive to the station.

 

‘One of the springs broke yesterday,’ replied the footman.

 

‘Well, then, the tarantas, but make haste! Where is the visitor?’

 

‘He has gone to his room.’

 

Levin found Vasenka, who had unpacked his portmanteau and spread out his new songs, trying on a pair of leggings and preparing for a ride.

 

Whether there was something unusual in Levin’s face, or whether Vasenka himself felt that ‘le petit brin de cour’ which he had started was out of place in this family, he was embarrassed (as far as is permissible to a man in Society) by Levin’s entry.

 

‘You wear leggings for riding?’

 

‘Yes, it’s much cleaner,’ said Vasenka, placing his fat foot on a chair, fastening the bottom hook, and smiling good-naturedly.

 

He was certainly a good-natured fellow, and Levin felt sorry for him and ashamed of himself as a host, when he noticed the shyness of Vasenka’s look. On the table lay a piece of stick which when doing gymnastics that morning they had broken, trying to raise the warped parallel bars. Levin took the broken stick and began pulling off the splintered bits at the end, not knowing how to begin.

 

‘I wished . . .’ He stopped, but suddenly remembering Kitty and all that had happened, he said, looking Veslovsky firmly in the eyes: ‘I have ordered the horses to be harnessed for you.’

 

‘What do you mean?’ Vasenka began with surprise. ‘To drive where?’

 

‘For you, to the station,’ answered Levin gloomily, pulling off splinters.

 

‘Why, are you going away, or has anything happened?’

 

‘It happens that I am expecting visitors,’ replied Levin more rapidly, breaking off the splintered bits of the stick with his strong fingers. ‘Or no, I am not expecting visitors and nothing has happened, yet I request you to leave. You may explain my impoliteness as you please.’

 

Vasenka drew himself up.

 

‘I ask you for an explanation,’ he said with dignity, having at last understood.

 

‘I can’t give you an explanation,’ said Levin softly and slowly, trying to control the trembling of his jaw, ‘and it is better for you not to ask.’

 

As the splinters were now all broken off Levin grasped the thick ends in his fingers and split the stick, carefully catching a piece as it fell.

 

Probably the sight of those strained arms, those muscles he had felt that morning when doing gymnastics, and the gleaming eyes, low voice and trembling jaws, convinced Vasenka more than the words. He shrugged his shoulders, smiled contemptuously, and bowed.

 

‘Can I not see Oblonsky?’

 

The shrug and smile did not irritate Levin. ‘What else is there for him to do?’ he thought.

 

‘I will send him to you at once.’

 

‘What is this nonsense?’ said Oblonsky, when he had heard from his friend that he was being driven out of the house, and had found Levin in the garden, where he was walking while awaiting the departure of his visitor. ‘Mais c’est ridicule! [But it’s ridiculous!] What fly has stung you? Mais c’est du dernier ridicule! [But it’s the height of absurdity!] Why, do you imagine that if a young man . . .’

 

But the place where the fly had stung Levin was evidently still sore, for he again grew pale when Oblonsky wished to refer to his reason, and hastily interrupted him.

 

‘Please don’t explain my reasons! I can’t do otherwise! I feel ashamed before you and before him. But I don’t think it will grieve him much to go away, and his presence is unpleasant to me and to my wife.’

 

‘But he feels insulted! Et puis, c’est ridicule! [And besides, it’s absurd!]’

 

‘And I feel insulted and tortured! And I have done nothing wrong and don’t deserve to suffer.’

 

‘Well, I never expected this of you! On peut être jaloux, mais à ce point c’est du dernier ridicule! [One may be jealous, but to such a point is the height of absurdity!]’

 

Levin turned away from him quickly and went far down one of the avenues, where he continued walking up and down alone. Soon he heard the rattle of the tarantas, and through the trees saw Vasenka, seated on hay (unluckily the tarantas had no seat), with the Scotch bonnet on his head, jolting over the ruts as he was driven down the other avenue.

 

‘What does that mean?’ wondered Levin when the footman ran out of the house and stopped the vehicle. It was on account of the mechanic, whom Levin had quite forgotten. He bowed and said something to Veslovsky, then climbed into the tarantas, and they drove away together.

 

Oblonsky and the Princess were indignant at Levin’s conduct. He himself felt not only that he was in the highest degree ridiculous, but quite guilty and disgraced; but recalling what he and his wife had suffered, and asking himself how he would act another time, he answered that he would do just the same again.

 

In spite of all this, by the end of the day every one, except the Princess, who could not forgive Levin’s conduct, became unusually animated and merry, like children after a punishment or adults after an oppressive official reception; so that in the Princess’s absence they talked about Vasenka’s expulsion as of an historic event. Dolly, who had inherited her father’s gift of putting things humorously, made Varenka collapse with laughter when she related for the third or fourth time, with ever fresh humorous additions, how she was just putting on some new ribbons in the visitor’s honour, and was about to go into the drawing-room, when suddenly she heard the clatter of the old cart. ‘And who was inside the cart? Who but Vasenka, with his Scotch bonnet and his songs and his leggings, sitting on the hay!’

 

‘At least, you might have let him have the brougham! . . . And then I hear: “Stop!” “Well,” think I, “they’ve relented.” I look again and they had popped a fat German in with him and were driving them both off . . . ! And so my ribbons were all in vain. . . .’

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter 16

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DOLLY carried out her intention of going to see Anna. She was very sorry to grieve her sister and to do anything that was unpleasant to Levin: she felt that they were right in not wishing to have anything to do with Vronsky, but felt it her duty to visit Anna and show her that the altered circumstances could not change her own feelings toward her.

 

Not to depend on the Levins for that journey, Dolly sent to the village to hire horses; but Levin hearing of it came and reproached her.

 

‘Why do you think your going would be unpleasant to me? Even if it were unpleasant it would be still more unpleasant for me if you did not use my horses,’ he said. ‘You never told me definitely that you were going. And that you should hire horses in the village is, in the first place, unpleasant to me, and besides that, they will undertake the job but won’t get you there. I have horses, and if you don’t wish to grieve me, you will take them.’

 

Dolly had to agree, and on the appointed day Levin had four horses ready for his sister-in-law, as well as a relay — having made it up of farm and riding horses — not at all a handsome team, but one able to get her to her destination in a day. As horses were also required for the Princess, who was leaving, and for the midwife, it was inconvenient to Levin; but he could not be so inhospitable as to allow Dolly to hire horses while staying with him. Besides, he knew that the twenty roubles she would have had to pay for the journey were of importance to her, and he felt her distressing financial embarrassments as if they had been his own.

 

Acting on Levin’s advice, Dolly started before day-break. The road was good, the calèche comfortable, the horses ran merrily, and on the box beside the coachman instead of a footman sat an office clerk whom Levin sent with her for safety. Dolly dozed, and only woke up when approaching the inn where the horses were to be changed.

 

After drinking tea at the prosperous peasant’s house where Levin had stopped when on his way to Sviyazhsky’s and conversing with the women about their children and with the old man about Count Vronsky, of whom he spoke very highly, Dolly continued her journey at ten o’clock. At home her care of the children never gave her leisure to think, but now, during this four hours’ drive, all the thoughts she had repressed crowded suddenly into her mind, and she reviewed her whole life from all sides as she had never done before. Her thoughts seemed strange to her. At first she thought of the children, about whom, though the Princess and especially Kitty (she had greater faith in Kitty) had promised to look after them, she still felt anxious. ‘If only Masha does not get into mischief again, or a horse does not kick Grisha, and if only Lily’s digestion does not get more upset.’ But then questions of the present began to be replaced by those of the immediate future. She began thinking that she would have to move into another house in Moscow for the winter, have the drawing-room furniture re-covered, and a new winter coat made for the eldest girl. Then came problems of a more remote future: how she should start her children in the world.

 

‘With the girls it will be comparatively easy,’ she thought, ‘but how about the boys?’

 

‘At present I am teaching Grisha, but that is only because I am free now and not having a baby. Of course Stiva is not to be counted on, but with the help of kind people I shall start them somehow. . . . But in case of another child . . .’ And it occurred to her how inaccurate it is to say that woman’s curse is the bringing forth of children. ‘Travail, that’s nothing — but pregnancy is torture,’ she thought, with her last pregnancy and the death of her infant in mind. And she recalled a talk she had had with a young woman at the halting-place. In answer to the question whether she had any children, the good-looking young peasant wife had cheerfully replied:

 

‘I had one girl, but God released me. I buried her in Lent.’

 

‘And are you very sorry?’ asked Dolly.

 

‘What’s there to be sorry about? The old man has plenty of grandchildren as it is. They’re nothing but worry. You can’t work or anything. They’re nothing but a tie . . .’

 

This answer had seemed horrible to Dolly, despite the good-natured sweetness of the young woman’s looks, but now she could not help recalling it. In those cynical words there was some truth.

 

‘Altogether,’ she thought, looking back at the whole of her life during those fifteen years of wedlock, ‘pregnancy, sickness, dullness of mind, indifference to everything, and above all disfigurement. Even Kitty — young, pretty Kitty — how much plainer she has become! And I when I am pregnant become hideous, I know. Travail, suffering, monstrous suffering, and that final moment . . . then nursing, sleepless nights, and that awful pain!’

 

Dolly shuddered at the mere thought of the pain she had endured from sore nipples, from which she had suffered with almost every baby. ‘Then the children’s illnesses, that continued anxiety; then their education, nasty tendencies’ (she recalled little Masha’s delinquency among the raspberry canes), ‘lessons, Latin. . . . It is all so incomprehensible and difficult. And above all, the death of these children . . .’ And once more the cruel memory rose that always weighed on her mother-heart: the death of her last baby, a boy who died of croup; his funeral, the general indifference shown to the little pink coffin, and her own heartrending, lonely grief at the sight of that pale little forehead with the curly locks on the temples, and of the open, surprised little mouth visible in the coffin at the instant before they covered it with the pink lid ornamented with a gold lace cross.

 

‘And what is it all for? What will come of it all? I myself without having a moment’s peace, now pregnant, now nursing, always cross and grumbling, tormenting myself and others, repulsive to my husband — I shall live my life, and produce unfortunate, badly brought-up and beggared children. Even now, if we had not spent this summer with Kostya and Kitty, I don’t know how we should have managed. Of course Kostya and Kitty are so considerate that we don’t feel it; but it can’t go on so. They will have children of their own and won’t be able to help us; as it is, they are put to inconvenience. Is Papa, who has kept scarcely anything for himself, to help us? . . . So I can’t even give the children a start myself unless it’s with other people’s help and with humiliation. Well, supposing the best: that none of the other children die, and that I somehow succeed in bringing them up; at the very best they will only escape being ne’er-do-wells. That is all I can hope for. And for this, so much suffering and trouble. . . . My whole life ruined!’ Again she remembered what the young woman had said. Again the recollection was repulsive to her, but she could not help admitting that there was a measure of crude truth in the words.