Anna Karenina (Dole)/Part One/Chapter 33
CHAPTER XXXIII
Alekseï Aleksandrovitch returned from the ministry about four o'clock; but, as often happened, he found no time to speak to Anna. He went directly to his private room to give audience to some petitioners who were waiting for him, and to sign some papers brought him by his chief secretary.
The Karenins always had at least three visitors to dine with them; and that day there came an old lady, a cousin of Alekseï Aleksandrovitch's, a department director with his wife, and a young man recommended to Alekseï Aleksandrovitch for employment. Anna came to the drawing-room to receive them at five o'clock precisely. The great bronze clock, of the time of Peter the Great, had not yet finished its fifth stroke, when Alekseï Aleksandrovitch, in white cravat, and with two decorations on his dress-coat, left his dressing-room; he had an engagement immediately after dinner. Every moment of Alekseï Aleksandrovitch's life was counted and occupied; and in order to accomplish what he had to do every day, he was forced to use the strictest punctuality. "Without haste, and without rest," was his motto. He entered the dining-room, bowed to his guests, and, giving his wife a smile, hastily sat down.
"Yes, my solitude is over! You can't believe how irksome,"—he laid a special stress on the word nelovko, irksome,—"it is to dine alone!"
During the dinner he talked with his wife about matters in Moscow, and, with his mocking smile, inquired especially about Stepan Arkadyevitch; but the conversation dwelt for the most part on common subjects, about official and social matters in Petersburg. After dinner he spent a half-hour with his guests, and then, giving his wife another smile, and pressing her hand, he left the room and went to the council.
Anna did not go out that evening either to the Princess Betsy Tverskaya's, who, having heard of her arrival, had sent her an invitation; or to the theater, where she just now had a box. She did not go out principally because the gown on which she had counted was not finished. After the departure of her guests, Anna took a general survey of her wardrobe, and was very angry. She was extremely clever in dressing at small expense, and just before she went to Moscow she had given three gowns to her dressmaker to make over. These gowns required to be made over in such a way that no one would recognize them, and they should have been ready three days before. Two of the gowns proved to be absolutely unfinished, and one was not made over in a way which Anna liked. The dressmaker sought to explain what she had done, declaring that her way was best; and Anna reprimanded her so severely that afterwards she felt ashamed of herself. To calm her agitation, she went to the nursery, and spent the whole evening with her son, put him to bed herself, made the sign of the cross over him, and tucked the quilt about him. She was glad that she had not gone out, and that she had spent such a happy evening. It was so quiet and restful, and now she saw clearly that all that had seemed so important during her railway journey was only one of the ordinary insignificant events of social life,—that she had nothing of which to be ashamed, either in her own eyes, or in the eyes of others. She sat down in front of the fireplace with her English novel, and waited for her husband. At half-past ten exactly his ring was heard at the door, and he came into the room.
"Here you are, at last," she said, giving him her hand. He kissed her hand, and sat down near her.
"Your journey, I see, was on the whole very successful," said he.
"Yes, very," she replied; and she began to relate all the details from the beginning—her journey with the Countess Vronskaya, her arrival, the accident at the station, the pity which she had felt, first for her brother, and afterwards for Dolly.
"I do not see how it is possible to pardon such a man, even though he is your brother," said Alekseï Aleksandrovitch, severely.
Anna smiled. She appreciated that he said this to show that not even kinship could bend him from the strictness of his honest judgment. She knew this trait in her husband's character, and liked it.
"I am glad that all ended so satisfactorily, and that you have come home again," he continued, "Well! what do they say there about the new measures that I introduced in the council?"
Anna had heard nothing said about this new measure, and she was confused because she had so easily forgotten something which to him was so important.
"Here, on the contrary, it has made a great sensation," said he, with a self-satisfied smile.
She saw that Alekseï Aleksandrovitch wanted to tell her something very flattering to himself about this affair, and, by means of questions, she led him up to the story. And he, with the same self-satisfied smile, began to tell her of the congratulations which he had received on account of this measure, which had been passed.
"I was very, very glad. This proves that at last reasonable and serious views about this question are beginning to be formed among us."
After he had taken his second glass of tea, with cream and bread, Alekseï Aleksandrovitch arose to go to his library.
"But you did not go out; was it very tiresome for you?" he said.
"Oh, no!" she replied, rising with her husband, and going with him through the hall to the library.
"What are you reading now?" she asked.
"Just now I am reading the Duc de Lille—Poésie des enfers",he replied, "a very remarkable book."
Anna smiled, as one smiles at the weaknesses of those we love, and, passing her arm through her husband's, accompanied him to the library door. She knew that his habit of reading in the evening had become inexorable, and that, notwithstanding his absorbing duties, which took so much of his time at the council, he felt it his duty to follow all that seemed remarkable in the sphere of literature. She also knew that while he felt a special interest in works on political economy, philosophy, and religion, art was quite foreign to his nature; and notwithstanding this, or better, for that very reason, Alekseï Aleksandrovitch allowed nothing that was attracting attention in that field to escape his notice, but considered it his duty to read everything. She knew that in the province of political economy, philosophy, religion, Alekseï Aleksandrovitch had doubts, and tried to solve them; but in questions of art or poetry, particularly in music, the comprehension of which was utterly beyond him, he had the most precise and definite opinions. He loved to talk of Shakespeare, Raphael, and Beethoven; of the importance of the new school of music and poetry,—all of whom were classed by him according to the most rigorous logic.
"Well! God be with you," she said, as they reached the door of the library. Near her husband's arm-chair were standing, as usual, the shade-lamp already lighted, and a carafe with water. "And I am going to write to Moscow."
Again he pressed her hand, and kissed it.
"Taken all in all, he is a good man; upright, excellent, remarkable in his sphere," said Anna to herself, on her way to her room, as if she was defending him from some one who accused him of not being lovable.
"But why do his ears stick out so? Or does he cut his hair too short?"
It was just midnight, and Anna was still sitting at her writing-table finishing a letter to Dolly, when measured steps in slippers were heard; and Alekseï Aleksandrovitch, who had washed his face and brushed his hair, came in with his book under his arm.
"Late, late," said he, with his usual smile, and passed on to his sleeping-room.
"And what right had he to look at him so?" thought Anna, recalling Vronsky's expression when he saw Alekseï Aleksandrovitch. Having undressed, she went to her room; but in her face there was none of that animation that shone in her eyes and in her smile at Moscow. On the contrary, the fire had either died away, or was somewhere far away and out of sight.