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FORTY-TWO

Chapter 6
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KARENIN had gained a brilliant victory at the Committee Meeting of the seventeenth of August; but the consequence of that victory undermined his power. The new committee for investigating the conditions of the subject races from every point of view had been formed and sent to its field of action with unusual promptitude and energy, stirred up by Karenin. Three months later the committee sent in its report. The subject races’ conditions had been investigated from the political, administrative, economic, ethnographical, material, and religious points of view. All the questions had received splendidly drafted answers: answers not open to doubt, since they were not the result of human thoughts (always liable to error), but were the outcome of official labours. All the answers were based on official data: Reports from Governors and Bishops, based on Reports from district authorities and ecclesiastical superintendents, based in their turn on Reports from rural administrative officers and parish priests; therefore these answers could not admit of any doubt. All the questions as to why they had bad harvests, for instance, or why the natives kept to their own creeds and so on, questions which without the convenience of the official machine don’t get solved and can’t get solved for centuries, had received clear and certain solutions. And the solutions arrived at were in accord with Karenin’s opinions. But Stremov, who had been touched to the quick at the last meeting, made use of tactics for which Karenin was not prepared. Stremov suddenly changed over to Karenin’s side, bringing several other members in his train, and not only warmly supported the measures advocated by Karenin, but proposed other more extreme measures of the same nature. These measures, going beyond Karenin’s original idea, were accepted, and then Stremov’s tactics became manifest. The measures, carried to extremes, proved so stupid that persons in office, public opinion, intellectual women, and the press, all at the same moment fell upon them, expressing indignation at the measures themselves, and at Karenin, their acknowledged originator. Stremov stood aside, pretending to have blindly followed Karenin’s plans and to be himself indignant now at what had been done, thus undermining Karenin. But, in spite of failing health and family troubles, Karenin did not give in. There was a split in the Committee. Some of the members, with Stremov at their head, excused their mistake by maintaining that they had put their faith in the report presented by the Revisory Committee directed by Karenin; and said that that Committee’s report was nonsense and nothing but waste paper. Karenin and a number of others saw danger in so revolutionary an attitude toward official documents and continued to support the data presented by the Committee. In consequence, the higher circles and even Society became quite confused and, though everybody was deeply interested in the question, no one could make out whether the subject races were really suffering and perishing or were flourishing. Karenin’s position, partly in consequence of this and partly from the contempt that fell on him as a result of his wife’s infidelity, became very shaky. In these circumstances he took an important resolution. He announced, to the surprise of the Committee, that he would ask to be allowed to go and investigate the matter himself, and having received permission he started for the distant Provinces.
Karenin’s departure was much talked about, especially because just before starting he formally returned the post-fare sufficient to pay for twelve horses all the way to his destination, which had been advanced to him.
‘I consider it very fine of him,’ the Princess Betsy said, referring to it in a conversation with Princess Myagkaya. ‘Why should they pay for post-horses when everybody knows that we now have railways everywhere?’
But the Princess Myagkaya did not agree, and was even irritated by Princess Tverskaya’s views.
‘It is all very well for you to talk who possess I don’t know how many millions,’ she said. ‘But I am very glad when my husband goes on inspection-tours in summer. It is very good for his health, and pleasant for him; and we have an arrangement by which this allowance goes for the hire of a carriage and coachman for me.’
On his way to the distant Province Karenin stopped three days in Moscow. On the day after his arrival he went to call on the Governor-General. At the crossing of Gazetny Street, where there is always a crowd of carriages and izvoshchiks, he suddenly heard some one calling out his name in such a loud and cheerful voice that he could not help looking round. On the pavement at the corner of the street, in a short fashionable overcoat and a small fashionable hat, his teeth gleaming between his smiling red lips, young, gay, and beaming, stood Oblonsky, determinedly and insistently shouting and demanding that Karenin should stop. He was holding with one hand the window of a carriage (from which the head of a lady in a velvet bonnet and two little children’s heads were leaning out) and was smilingly beckoning with his other hand to his brother-in-law. The lady too with a kind smile waved her hand to Karenin. The lady with the children was Dolly.
Karenin did not wish to see anyone in Moscow, and certainly not his wife’s brother. He raised his hat and was going on, but Oblonsky told the coachman to stop and ran across the snow.
‘What a shame not to have sent word! Been here long? And I went into Dusseaux’s hotel yesterday and saw “Karenin” on the board, and it never entered my head that it could be you!’ said Oblonsky, thrusting his head in at the carriage window, ‘else I should have looked you up. I am glad to see you!’ and he kicked his feet together to knock off the snow. ‘What a shame not to send word!’
‘I could not find time: I am very busy,’ Karenin answered drily.
‘Come and speak to my wife; she is so anxious to see you.’
Karenin unfolded the rug he had wrapped round his legs, which were so sensitive to the cold, got out of the carriage, and making his way through the snow approached Dolly.
‘What is the matter, Alexis Alexandrovich? Why do you avoid us in this way?’ Dolly smilingly asked.
‘I was exceedingly busy! Very pleased to see you,’ he said in a tone that expressed clearly that he was very sorry. ‘How are you?’
‘And how is my dear Anna?’
Karenin muttered something and was about to go, when Oblonsky stopped him.
‘D’you know what we’ll do to-morrow? Dolly, ask him to come and dine with us! We shall invite Koznyshev and Pestsov, so as to let him taste the Moscow intellectuals.’
‘Yes, do come!’ said Dolly. ‘We shall expect you at five or six, just as you like. But how is my dear Anna? It is so long . . .’
‘She is well,’ replied Karenin, frowning. ‘I shall be very pleased,’ and he went back to his carriage.
‘Then you will come?’ cried Dolly.
Karenin muttered something which Dolly could not catch amid the noise of passing vehicles.
‘I shall call to-morrow!’ shouted Oblonsky to him.
Karenin got into his carriage and sat far back, so as neither to see nor to be seen.
‘Queer chap!’ said Oblonsky to his wife, and after glancing at his watch waved his hand in front of his face as a sign of endearment to his wife and children, and walked jauntily away along the pavement.
‘Stiva, Stiva!’ Dolly called, and blushed.
He turned round.
‘You know that I must buy coats for Grisha and Tanya. Give me some money.’
‘Never mind! Tell them I will pay!’ and nodding his head to an acquaintance who was driving past he disappeared round the corner.
Chapter 7
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THE next day was Sunday. Oblonsky went to the rehearsal of a ballet at the Imperial Theatre and gave to Masha Chibisova — a pretty dancer, who through his patronage had just obtained an engagement — a coral necklace he had promised her the evening before; and behind the scene, in the midday darkness of the theatre, contrived to kiss her pretty face, which was brightened by his present. Besides giving her the necklace he wished to make an appointment to meet her after the ballet. Having explained that he could not be there at the beginning of the performance, he promised to come for the last act, and take her to supper. From the theatre Oblonsky went to the market, and himself selected the fish and asparagus for dinner; and at noon he was already at Dusseaux’s Hotel, where he had to call on three people who, fortunately for him, had all put up at the same place. These were: Levin, who had only just returned from abroad; a newly-appointed superior official who was making a tour of inspection in Moscow; and Karenin, his brother-in-law, whom he wanted to secure for dinner.
Oblonsky liked a good dinner, but liked still more giving a dinner-party: not a big affair, but one select in food, drink, and guests. With the programme for that day’s dinner he was very satisfied; there would be perch (brought alive to the kitchen) and asparagus, the pièce de résistance was to consist of a splendid but quite plain joint of roast beef, and the wines would be well chosen: so much for the food and drink. As for the guests, there would be Kitty and Levin, and, in order that they should not be too conspicuous, a girl cousin and young Shcherbatsky; here the pièce de résistance was to consist of Sergius Ivanich Koznyshev and Alexis Alexandrovich Karenin: Sergius Ivanich, a Muscovite and a philosopher, and Alexis Alexandrovich, a Petersburger and a practical politician. Besides these he meant to ask the well-known crank and enthusiast Pestsov, a Liberal and a great talker, a musician and historian, and the dearest of fifty-year-old boys, who would serve as sauce or condiment to Koznyshev and Karenin; while he himself, Oblonsky, would stir them all up and set them by the ears.
The second instalment of the forest money had been paid and was not yet all spent, Dolly had been very nice and kind of late, and the thought of his dinner-party pleased Oblonsky in every respect. He was in very high spirits. Just two circumstances were not quite satisfactory, but they were drowned in the ocean of kind-hearted joviality which overflowed his heart. These two circumstances were as follows. From the fact that when he had met Karenin in the street the previous day the latter had treated him with cold stiffness, and had not called or even informed them of his arrival — from this, added to the rumour about Anna and Vronsky that had reached him, Oblonsky concluded that all was not as it should be between the husband and wife.
This was one of the unpleasant things while the other was the fact that his new superior, like all new superiors, had the reputation of being a dreadful man who got up at six in the morning, worked like a horse, and expected his subordinates to do the same. This superior also had the reputation of having the manners of a bear, and he was reported to hold views diametrically opposed to those of his predecessor and, till now, of Oblonsky also. On the previous day Oblonsky had appeared on Service business in uniform; the new superior was very pleasant and chatted with him as with an old acquaintance; therefore Oblonsky now considered it his duty to call on him in a morning coat. The thought that the new superior might not take this in good part was the second unpleasant circumstance, but Oblonsky felt instinctively that everything would ‘turn out’ splendidly. ‘After all, they’re all human beings, all men, just like us poor sinners,’ he thought, as he entered the hotel. ‘What is there to be angry and quarrel about?’
Walking down the corridor with his hat tilted on one side, he said, ‘How do you do, Vassily?’ to a servant he knew. ‘You’ve grown whiskers! Levin — number seven, eh? Will you show me the way? And please find out whether Count Anichkin’ (the new superior) ‘will receive me.’
‘Yes, sir,’ replied Vassily with a smile. ‘It’s a long time since you’ve been here.’
‘I was here yesterday, but came by the other entrance. Is this number seven?’
Levin was standing in the middle of the room beside a peasant from Tver, measuring a fresh bearskin with a yard measure, when Oblonsky entered.
‘Ah! Killed it?’ cried Oblonsky. ‘Fine thing! A she-bear? How d’you do, Arkhip?’
He shook hands with the peasant and sat down without taking off his overcoat or hat.
‘Do take your things off and stay,’ said Levin, removing the hat.
‘No, I have no time. I’ve only come in for a moment,’ replied Oblonsky, throwing open his coat. Later on he took it off and stayed for an hour, talking to Levin about bear-hunting and also about personal matters.
‘Now please tell me what you did abroad, and where you have been,’ said Oblonsky, when the peasant had left.
‘Well, I stayed in Germany, in Prussia, in France, and in England — not in the capitals but in manufacturing centres. I’ve seen many new things and am glad I went.’
‘Yes, I know your idea of settling the working-class problem.’
‘Not at all! In Russia there cannot be a working-class problem. In Russia the question turns on the relation between the labourers and the land. They have the same problems there, but with them it is a case of patching up what has already been spoilt — while here . . .’
Oblonsky listened to Levin with attention.
‘Yes, yes,’ he said, ‘very likely you are right. But I am glad you are in good spirits and go bear-hunting, and work, and are full of enthusiasms, because Shcherbatsky told me he met you and you were down in the mouth, and kept talking about death.
‘Well, what of that? I never stop thinking of death,’ said Levin. ‘It really is time for me to die. All those things are mere nonsense. I will tell you frankly: I value my idea and my work immensely, but really . . . Just think! This whole world of ours is only a speck of mildew sprung up on a tiny planet; yet we think we can have something great — thoughts, actions! They are all but grains of sand!’
‘But, my dear fellow, all that is as old as the hills.’
‘It is old. . . . But, do you know, when you have once grasped it clearly, everything becomes so insignificant! If you once realize that to-morrow, if not to-day, you will die and nothing will be left of you, everything becomes insignificant! I consider my ideas very important, yet they too turn out to be insignificant — and would be, even if it were as possible to carry them out as it was to surround this bear. And so one passes one’s life finding distraction in hunting or in work, merely not to think of death.’
Oblonsky listened to Levin with an affectionate and subtle smile.
‘Well, of course! So now you have come round to my notion. Do you remember how you used to fly at me for seeking enjoyment in life? Do not be so severe, O moralist! . . .’
‘But of course the good in life is . . .’ Levin became confused. ‘Oh, I don’t know. All I know is, that we shall all die soon.’
‘Why soon?’
‘And do you know, life has less charm when one thinks of death, but it is more peaceful.’
‘On the contrary, it is even brighter toward the end! However, I must be going,’ returned Oblonsky, rising for the tenth time.
‘Don’t go yet!’ said Levin, trying to detain him. ‘When shall we meet again? I am leaving to-morrow.’
‘Well, I’m a good one! Why, I came on purpose . . . You must come and dine with us to-day. Your brother is coming, and my brother-in-law, Karenin.’
‘Is he here?’ asked Levin, and was going to inquire about Kitty. He had heard that she went to Petersburg at the beginning of the winter to visit her sister, who had married a diplomatist. He did not know whether she had returned, but changed his mind and thought: ‘Whether she comes or not will make no difference.’
‘Then you will come?’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘Well, then, at five, and in morning dress!’ And Oblonsky got up and went downstairs to call on the new superior. His instinct had not deceived him; the dreadful new superior turned out to be a most affable man. Oblonsky had lunch with him and sat talking so long that it was going on for four when he arrived at Karenin’s.
Chapter 8
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KARENIN, after returning from church, spent the rest of the morning in the hotel. That day he had two matters to see to: to interview a deputation from a subject race, which was in Moscow at that time, and give them instructions, and to write to the lawyer as he had promised. The interview, though the deputation had been summoned on his initiative, was an affair that presented many difficulties and even dangers, and Karenin was very glad that it chanced to be in Moscow when he was there. The members of the deputation had not the least comprehension of their rôle or of their duties. They were naïvely convinced that their business consisted in explaining their needs and the existing state of affairs, and of asking for help from the Government. They could decidedly not understand that some of their statements and demands would play into the hands of the hostile party, and thereby ruin their case. Karenin had a prolonged tussle with them, and wrote out for them a programme which they were not to overstep, and having dismissed them he wrote two letters to Petersburg. One of them contained instructions regarding this deputation. In this matter his chief helper was the Countess Lydia Ivanovna, who was a specialist in deputations. No one else could so well pilot a deputation or give it a good start.
When he had finished with the deputation Karenin wrote to the lawyer, without the least hesitation giving him permission to act at his own discretion, and enclosing three notes from Vronsky to Anna which he had found in the writing-case he had taken possession of.
Having left his home with the intention of never returning to his family, and having seen the lawyer and communicated — though only to that one person — this intention, and particularly after converting this matter of life into an affair of ink and paper, Karenin had grown more and more used to the notion; so that carrying it into effect now seemed to him possible. He was just closing his letter to the lawyer when he heard Oblonsky’s voice.
Oblonsky was disputing with Karenin’s servant, and insisting that he should be announced.
‘No matter!’ thought Karenin, ‘it is even better so. I will tell him about my position with regard to his sister at once, and will explain why I cannot dine at his house.’
‘Ask the gentleman in!’ he said in a loud voice, collecting his papers and placing them inside a blotter.
‘There, you see, you were lying to me! He is at home!’ came the voice of Oblonsky in answer to the man who had been trying to stop him, as he entered the room, taking off his overcoat as he came. ‘I’m awfully glad I have found you in! Well, I hope . . .’ began Oblonsky, cheerfully.
‘I can’t come,’ Karenin, who was standing, said coldly, without offering his visitor a seat.
Karenin had expected to enter at once upon the cool relation in which he would henceforth stand toward the brother of the wife against whom he was beginning divorce proceedings; but he had not counted upon the flood of kindliness which overflowed the banks of Oblonsky’s soul.
Oblonsky opened his clear and shining eyes wide.
‘Why can’t you? What do you mean?’ he demanded in French, quite taken aback. ‘Oh no, you have promised and we are reckoning on you.’
‘I must tell you that I can’t come because the family connection hitherto subsisting between us must now be severed.’
‘What? I mean, how? Why?’ said Oblonsky, smiling.
‘Because I am about to take proceedings to divorce your sister, my wife. I was obliged to. . . .’
But before Karenin could finish what he was about to say, Oblonsky did something quite unexpected. He uttered an exclamation of dismay and sat down in an easy-chair.
‘Dear me, Alexis Alexandrovich! What are you talking about?’ he cried, a look of pain appearing on his face.
‘It is true.’
‘Forgive me, but I can’t — I can’t believe it. . .’
Karenin sat down, conscious that his words had not the effect he had anticipated, that he would be obliged to give an explanation, and that whatever that explanation might be, it would not alter his relation to his brother-in-law.
‘Yes, I am under the painful necessity of applying for a divorce,’ he continued.
‘I will tell you just one thing, Alexis Alexandrovich! I know you to be a first-rate and a just man; I know Anna to be — excuse me! I cannot change my opinion of her — a fine, a splendid woman; and therefore forgive me, but I cannot believe this. There must be some misunderstanding!’ said Oblonsky.
‘Ah, if it were only a misunderstanding! . . .’
‘Wait a moment — I understand,’ Oblonsky interrupted him. ‘But of course . . . Only this: one should not be in a hurry. No! One shouldn’t, shouldn’t be in a hurry.’
‘I was not in a hurry,’ replied Karenin, coldly. ‘In a case like this it was impossible to consult anyone. I have quite made up my mind.’
‘But it is awful!’ said Oblonsky, sighing deeply. ‘One thing I would do, Alexis Alexandrovich, if I were you — I entreat you to do it! You have not yet commenced proceedings, as I understand? Well, before doing so, see my wife and talk it over with her! She cares for Anna as for a sister, she is fond of you, and she is a wonderful woman. For heaven’s sake, talk it over with her! Do me this favour, I entreat you!’
Karenin considered, and for a while Oblonsky gazed at him, full of sympathy, without breaking the silence. ‘You will come and see her?’
‘I hardly know. The reason I did not call on you is that I think our relationship must be altered.’
‘Why? I don’t see it. Allow me to believe that beside our family relationship, you share at least to some extent the friendly feeling I have always had for you . . . and sincere respect,’ added Oblonsky, pressing the other’s hand. ‘Even if your worst suspicions proved correct, I never took upon myself and never will, to judge either side; and I see no reason why our relations should change. But do, now do come and see my wife!’
‘Ah, we look at the matter differently,’ said Karenin, coldly. ‘However, don’t let us talk about it.’
‘But why won’t you come? Supposing you came to dinner to-day? My wife expects you. Do come, and above all, do talk it over with her. She is a wonderful woman. For heaven’s sake — I implore you on my bended knees!’
‘If you wish it so much, I will come,’ said Karenin with a sigh, and anxious to change the subject he inquired about a matter interesting them both — Oblonsky’s new superior, a man who, though still young, had suddenly been given so important a post.
Karenin had never liked Count Anichkin, their opinions had always been at variance, and now he could not repress a feeling of spite, quite comprehensible to anyone in an official position, toward a more successful man.
‘Well, and have you seen him?’ said Karenin with a venomous smile.
‘Oh yes, he came to the Council yesterday. He seems to know his business perfectly and is very active.’
‘Yes, but in what direction?’ asked Karenin. ‘Toward getting things done, or toward changing what has been done already? The curse of our State is its red-tape administration, of which he is a worthy representative.’
‘I really don’t know what his tendencies are, but I do know that he is a first-rate fellow,’ replied Oblonsky. ‘I have just been to see him, and he really is a first-rate chap. We had lunch, and I showed him how to make that stuff — you know — wine with oranges. It is very refreshing, and it is amazing that he did not know of it. He liked it very much. Yes, he certainly is a first-rate chap.’
Oblonsky looked at his watch.
‘Dear me, it is getting on for five and I have still, to call on Dolgovushin! . . . Well, then, do please come to dinner! You have no idea how grieved I and my wife will be if you don’t.’
Karenin parted from his brother-in-law in a very different manner to that in which he had met him.
‘I have promised, and I will come,’ he answered in a dejected tone.
‘Believe me, I appreciate it and hope that you will not repent it,’ Oblonsky replied, smiling. As he put on his overcoat while walking away, his arm struck the servant’s head. He laughed and went out. ‘Five o’clock, and morning dress, if you please!’ he sang out, returning to the door.