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EIGHT

‘Well, maman, are you quite well?’ he said, turning toward his mother.
‘Quite, everything is all right. Alexander was very nice, and Varya looks very handsome. She is most interesting.’
And she began to tell about what interested her most, her grandson’s christening, for which she had gone to Petersburg, and the special favour the Emperor had shown to her eldest1 son.
‘Here is Lavrenty at last,’ said Vronsky looking out of the window. ‘We can go now if you like.’
The old major-domo, who had accompanied the Countess on her journey, came in and announced that everything was ready, and the Countess rose to go.
‘Come, there is not much of a crowd now,’ said Vronsky.
The maid took one bag and the little dog, the major-domo and the porter took the other bags. Vronsky gave his arm to his mother, but, just as they were coming out of the carriage, several people ran past them with frightened faces. The station-master with his peculiar2 coloured cap also ran past them.
Evidently something unusual had happened. The people were running back from the train.
‘What? . . . What? . . . Where? . . . Thrown himself under . . . Run over . . .’ shouted the passers-by.
Oblonsky, with his sister on his arm, also turned back, and, avoiding the crowd, stood with frightened faces beside the carriage. The ladies re-entered the carriage, while Vronsky and Oblonsky followed the crowd, to find out about the accident.
A watchman, either tipsy or too much muffled3 up because of the severe frost, had not heard a train that was being shunted, and had been run over.
Before Vronsky and Oblonsky returned the ladies had heard this from the major-domo.
Oblonsky and Vronsky had both seen the mangled4 corpse5. Oblonsky was evidently suffering. His face was puckered6 and he seemed ready to cry.
‘Ah, how terrible! Oh Anna, if you had seen it! Ah, how terrible!’ he kept saying.
Vronsky remained silent. His handsome face was serious but perfectly7 calm.
‘Oh, if you had seen it, Countess,’ said Oblonsky. ‘And his wife was there. . . . It was dreadful to see her. She threw herself on the body. They say he was the sole support of a very large family. It is terrible!’
‘Can nothing be done for her?’ said Mrs. Karenina in an agitated8 whisper.
Vronsky glanced at her and at once went out. ‘I will be back directly, maman,’ he added, turning at the doorway9.
When he returned a few minutes later Oblonsky was already talking to the Countess about the new opera singer, while she was impatiently glancing at the door in expectation of her son.
‘Now let’s go,’ said Vronsky as he came in.
They went together, Vronsky walking in front with his mother, Mrs. Karenina following with her brother. At the exit the station-master overtook them, and said to Vronsky:
‘You gave my assistant 200 roubles. Please be so kind as to say whom you intended it for.’
‘For the widow,’ said Vronsky, shrugging his shoulders. ‘I don’t understand what need there is to ask.’
‘You have given it!’ exclaimed Oblonsky behind Vronsky, and pressing his sister’s arm he added, ‘Very kind, very kind! Isn’t he a fine fellow? My respects to you, Countess,’ and he remained behind with his sister, seeking her maid.
When they came out, the Vronskys’ carriage had already started. The people coming from the station were still talking about the accident.
‘What a terrible death!’ said some gentleman as he passed them; ‘cut in half, I hear.’
‘On the contrary, I think it is a very easy death, instantaneous,’ said another.
‘How is it that precautions are not taken?’ said a third.
Mrs. Karenina got into her brother’s carriage, and Oblonsky noticed with surprise that her lips were trembling and that it was with difficulty she kept back her tears.
‘What is the matter with you, Anna?’ he asked when they had gone a few hundred yards.
‘It’s a bad omen,’ she replied.
‘What nonsense!’ said Oblonsky. ‘You’re here, and that is the chief thing. You can’t think how my hopes rest on you.’
‘And have you known Vronsky long?’ she asked.
‘Yes. Do you know we hope he will marry Kitty?’
‘Yes?’ said Anna softly. ‘But let us talk about your affairs,’ she added, shaking her head as if she wished physically10 to drive away something superfluous11 that hampered12 her. ‘Let us talk of your affairs. I’ve received your letter and have come.’
‘Yes, all my hopes are fixed13 on you,’ said her brother.
‘Well, tell me all about it.’
And Oblonsky began his story.
On reaching his house, he helped his sister out of the carriage, pressed her hand, and drove off to his office.

Chapter 19

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WHEN Anna arrived Dolly was sitting in her little drawing-room giving a fair-haired, plump little boy (who already resembled his father) a French reading-lesson. The boy, as he read, kept twisting and trying to pull off a loose button that hung from his jacket. His mother moved his plump little hand away several times, but it always returned to the button. At last she pulled the button off and put it into her pocket.
‘Keep your hands quiet, Grisha,’ she said, and again took up the rug she was knitting, a piece of work begun long ago, to which she always returned in times of trouble, and which she was now knitting, nervously throwing the stitches over with her fingers and counting them. Though she had sent word to her husband the day before that she did not care whether his sister came or not, she had prepared everything for her visit and awaited her with agitation.
Dolly was overpowered by her sorrow and was quite absorbed by it. Nevertheless, she remembered that her sister-in-law, Anna, was the wife of one of the most important men in Petersburg, and a grande dame. Thanks to that circumstance she did not carry out her threat to her husband, and did not forget that her sister-in-law was coming.
‘After all, it is not in the least Anna’s fault,’ thought she. ‘I know nothing but good about her, and she has never shown me anything but kindness and friendship.’
It was true that, as far as she could remember her visit to the Karenins in Petersburg, she had not liked their house: there seemed to be something false in the tone of their family life. ‘But why should I not receive her? If only she does not try to console me!’ thought Dolly. ‘All these consolations and exhortations and Christian forgiveness, I have considered them a thousand times, and they are all no good.’
All these last days Dolly had been alone with her children. She did not wish to talk about her sorrow, yet with that on her mind she could not talk about indifferent matters. She knew that, one way or another, she would tell Anna everything, and now it pleased her to think how she would say it, and then she felt vexed to have to speak of her humiliation to her — his sister — and to hear from her set phrases of exhortation and consolation.
As it often happens, though she kept looking at the clock, waiting for Anna, she let the moment when her visitor arrived go by without even hearing the bell.
And when she heard soft steps and the rustle of petticoats already in the doorway, she looked round with an expression not of pleasure but of surprise on her care-worn face. She rose and embraced her sister-in-law.
‘So you’re here already?’ she said, kissing her.
‘Dolly, I am so pleased to see you!’
‘And I am pleased too,’ said Dolly with a feeble smile, trying to guess from Anna’s expression how much she knew. ‘She must know,’ she thought, noticing the look of sympathy on Anna’s face.
‘Come, let me take you to your room,’ she went on, trying to put off as long as possible the moment for explanation.
‘This is Grisha? Dear me, how he has grown!’ said Anna, and having kissed him, she stood with her eyes fixed on Dolly and blushed. ‘No, please do not let us go anywhere.’
She took off her shawl and her hat and, having caught it in her black and very curly hair, shook her head to disengage it.
‘And you are radiant with joy and health!’ said Dolly almost enviously.
‘I? . . . yes,’ said Anna. ‘Why, dear me, here is Tanya! You’re just the same age as my little Serezha,’ she added, turning to the little girl who had run into the room, and, taking her in her arms, Anna kissed her. ‘Sweet girlie! darling! Let me see them all.’
She not only mentioned them all by name, but remembered the years and even the months of their births, their characters, and what illnesses they had had; and Dolly could not help appreciating this.
‘Shall we go and see them?’ she said. ‘It is a pity Vasya is asleep.’
Having looked at the children they returned to the drawing-room and, being now alone, sat down to coffee at the table. Anna took hold of the tray, but then pushed it aside.
‘Dolly,’ she said, ‘he has told me!’
Dolly looked coldly at Anna. She expected now to hear words of insincere sympathy: but Anna said nothing of the kind.
‘Dolly dear!’ she began, ‘I do not wish to take his part or console you; that would be impossible, but, dearest, I am simply sorry for you, sorry from the bottom of my heart!’
Her bright eyes under their thick lashes suddenly filled with tears. She moved closer to her sister-in-law and with her energetic little hand took hold of Dolly’s. The latter did not draw back from her but her face retained its rigid expression. She said:
‘It is impossible to console me. Everything is lost after what has happened, everything destroyed!’
As soon as she had said it her face softened. Anna lifted Dolly’s dry thin hand, kissed it, and said:
‘But what is to be done, Dolly, what is to be done? What is the best way of acting in this dreadful position? That is what one has to consider.’
‘Everything is at an end, and that’s all,’ said Dolly. ‘And the worst of it is, you understand, that I can’t leave him: there are the children, and I am bound. Yet I can’t live with him; it is torture for me to see him.’
‘Dolly, my darling, he has spoken to me, but I want to hear it from you. Tell me everything.’
Dolly looked at her inquiringly.
Sincere sympathy and affection were visible in Anna’s face.
‘If you like,’ said Dolly suddenly, ‘but I’ll begin from the beginning. You know how I was married. With the education Mama gave me, I was not merely naïve, but silly! I knew nothing. I know they say husbands tell their wives how they have lived, but Stiva . . .’ She corrected herself. ‘But Stephen Arkadyevich never told me anything. You will hardly believe it, but up to now I thought I was the only woman he had ever known. In this way I lived for nine years. Only think, that I not only did not suspect him of unfaithfulness, but thought it impossible. I then . . . just imagine, with such ideas suddenly to find out all the horrors, all the abomination. . . . Try to understand me. To be fully convinced of one’s happiness and suddenly . . .’ continued Dolly, suppressing her sobs, ‘to read a letter, his letter to his mistress, my children’s governess. No, it is too horrible!’ She suddenly drew out her handkerchief and hid her face in it.
‘I could perhaps understand a momentary slip,’ she went on after a pause, ‘but deliberately, cunningly to deceive me . . . and with whom? To go on living with me as my husband, and with her at the same time . . . it’s awful; you cannot realize . . .’
‘Oh yes, I do, I do understand, Dolly dear, I do understand,’ said Anna, pressing her hand.
‘And do you think he realizes the horror of my situation?’ continued Dolly. ‘Not at all! He is happy and contented.’
‘Oh no,’ Anna quickly interrupted. ‘He is pitiable, he is overwhelmed with remorse . . .’
‘Is he capable of remorse?’ interrupted Dolly, looking searchingly into her sister-in-law’s face.
‘Oh yes, I know him. I could not look at him without pity. We both know him. He is kind-hearted, but he is proud too, and now he is so humiliated. What moved me most is . . . (and here Anna guessed what would touch Dolly most) that two things tormented him. He is ashamed of the children, and that, loving you . . . yes, yes, loving you more than anything else in the world,’ she hurriedly went on, not listening to Dolly who was about to reply, ‘he has hurt you, hit you so hard. He kept saying, “No, no, she will not forgive me!” ’
Dolly, gazing beyond her sister-in-law, listened thoughtfully.
‘Yes, I understand that his position is dreadful; it is worse for the guilty than for the innocent one,’ she said, ‘if he feels that the misfortune all comes from his fault. But how can I forgive him, how can I be a wife to him after her? . . . Life with him now will be a torture for me, just because I love my old love for him . . .’ Sobs cut short her words.
But as if intentionally every time she softened, she again began to speak of the thing that irritated her.
‘You know she is young, she is pretty,’ she said. ‘You see, Anna, my youth and my good looks have been sacrificed, and to whom? For him and his children. I have served his purpose and lost all I had in the service, and of course a fresh, good-for-nothing creature now pleases him better. They probably talked about me, or, worse still, avoided the subject. . . . You understand?’
And hatred again burned in her eyes.
‘And after that he will tell me. . . . Am I to believe him? Never. . . . No, it’s all ended, all that served as a consolation, as a reward for my labours, my sufferings. . . . Will you believe me, I have just been teaching Grisha: it used to be a pleasure, and now it is a torment. What is the good of my taking pains, of working so hard? What use are the children? It is terrible, my soul has so revolted that instead of love and tenderness for him I have nothing but anger left, yes, anger. I could kill him . . .’
‘Dolly dearest! I understand, but don’t torture yourself. You are so deeply hurt, so upset, that you see many things in the wrong light.’
Dolly was silent, and for a moment or two neither spoke.
‘What am I to do? Think it over, Anna, help me! I have turned over in my mind everything I could think of, and can find nothing.’
Anna could not think of anything, but her heart responded to every word and every look of Dolly’s.
‘All I can say is,’ began Anna, ‘I am his sister and I know his character, his capacity for forgetting everything,’ she made a gesture with her hand in front of her forehead, ‘that capacity for letting himself be completely carried away, but on the other hand for completely repenting. He can hardly believe now — can hardly understand — how he could do it.’
‘No, he understands and understood,’ Dolly interrupted. ‘And I . . . you forget me . . . Does it make it easier for me?’
‘Wait a bit. When he was speaking to me, I confess I did not quite realize the misery of your position. I saw only his side, and that the family was upset, and I was sorry for him, but now having spoken with you I as a woman see something else. I see your suffering and I cannot tell you how sorry I am for you. But, Dolly dearest, I fully understand your sufferings — yet there is one thing I do not know. I do not know . . . I do not know how much love there still is in your soul — you alone know that. Is there enough for forgiveness? If there is — then forgive him.’
‘No,’ Dolly began, but Anna stopped her and again kissed her hand.
‘I know the world better than you do,’ she said. ‘I know men like Stiva and how they see these things. You think he spoke to her about you. That never happens. These men may be unfaithful, but their homes, their wives, are their holy places. They manage in some way to hold these women in contempt and don’t let them interfere with the family. They seem to draw some kind of line between the family and those others. I do not understand it, but it is so.’
‘Yes, but he kissed her . . .’
‘Dolly, wait a bit. I have seen Stiva when he was in love with you. I remember his coming to me and weeping (what poetry and high ideals you were bound up with in his mind!), and I know the longer he lived with you the higher you rose in his esteem. You know we used to laugh at him because his every third word was, “Dolly is a wonderful woman.” You have been and still are his divinity, and this infatuation never reached his soul. . . .’
‘But suppose the infatuation is repeated?’
‘It cannot be, as I understand . . .’
‘And you, would you forgive?’
‘I do not know, I cannot judge. . . . Yes, I can,’ said Anna, after a minute’s consideration. Her mind had taken in and weighed the situation, and she added, ‘Yes, I can, I can. Yes, I should forgive. I should not remain the same woman — no, but I should forgive, and forgive it as utterly as if it had never happened at all.’
‘Well, of course . . .’ Dolly put in quickly as if saying what she had often herself thought, ‘or else it would not be forgiveness. If one is to forgive, it must be entire forgiveness. Well now, I will show you your room.’ She rose, and on the way embraced Anna. ‘My dear, how glad I am you came! I feel better now, much better.’