Part 7 (1/2)

A smart guard jumped out, giving a whistle, and after him one by one the impatient pa.s.sengers began to get down: an officer of the guards, holding himself erect, and looking severely about him; a nimble little merchant with a satchel, smiling gaily; a peasant with a sack over his shoulder.

Vronsky, standing beside Oblonsky, watched the carriages and the pa.s.sengers, totally oblivious of his mother. What he had just heard about Kitty excited and delighted him. Unconsciously he arched his chest, and his eyes flashed. He felt himself a conqueror.

”Countess Vronskaya is in that compartment,” said the smart guard, going up to Vronsky.

The guard's words roused him, and forced him to think of his mother and his approaching meeting with her. He did not in his heart respect his mother, and without acknowledging it to himself, he did not love her, though in accordance with the ideas of the set in which he lived, and with his own education, he could not have conceived of any behavior to his mother not in the highest degree respectful and obedient, and the more externally obedient and respectful his behavior, the less in his heart he respected and loved her.

Chapter 18.

Vronsky followed the guard to the carriage, and at the door of the compartment he stopped short to make room for a lady who was getting out.

With the insight of a man of the world, from one glance at this lady's appearance Vronsky cla.s.sified her as belonging to the best society. He begged pardon, and was getting into the carriage, but felt he must glance at her once more; not that she was very beautiful, not on account of the elegance and modest grace which were apparent in her whole figure, but because in the expression of her charming face, as she pa.s.sed close by him, there was something peculiarly caressing and soft. As he looked round, she too turned her head. Her s.h.i.+ning gray eyes, that looked dark from the thick lashes, rested with friendly attention on his face, as though she were recognizing him, and then promptly turned away to the pa.s.sing crowd, as though seeking someone. In that brief look Vronsky had time to notice the suppressed eagerness which played over her face, and flitted between the brilliant eyes and the faint smile that curved her red lips. It was as though her nature were so br.i.m.m.i.n.g over with something that against her will it showed itself now in the flash of her eyes, and now in her smile. Deliberately she shrouded the light in her eyes, but it shone against her will in the faintly perceptible smile.

Vronsky stepped into the carriage. His mother, a dried-up old lady with black eyes and rin the amba.s.sador's wife, with playful horror, cut him short.

”Please don't tell us about that horror.”

”All right, I won't especially as everyone knows those horrors.”

”And we should all go to see them if it were accepted as the correct thing, like the opera,” chimed in Princess Myakaya.

Chapter 7.

Steps were heard at the door, and Princess Betsy, knowing it was Madame Karenina, glanced at Vronsky. He was looking towards the door, and his face wore a strange new expression. Joyfully, intently, and at the same time timidly, he gazed at the approaching figure, and slowly he rose to his feet. Anna walked into the drawing room. Holding herself extremely erect, as always, looking straight before her, and moving with her swift, resolute, and light step, that distinguished her from all other society women, she crossed the short s.p.a.ce to her hostess, shook hands with her, smiled, and with the same smile looked around at Vronsky. Vronsky bowed low and pushed a chair up for her.

She acknowledged this only by a slight nod, flushed a little, and frowned. But immediately, while rapidly greeting her acquaintances, and shaking the hands proffered to her, she addressed Princess Betsy: ”I have been at Countess Lidia's, and meant to have come here earlier, but I stayed on. Sir John was there. He's very interesting.”

”Oh, that's this missionary?”

”Yes; he told us about the life in India, most interesting things.”

The conversation, interrupted by her coming in, flickered up again like the light of a lamp being blown out.

”Sir John! Yes, Sir John; I've seen him. He speaks well. The Vla.s.sieva girl's quite in love with him.”

”And is it true the younger Vla.s.sieva girl's to marry Topov?”

”Yes, they say it's quite a settled thing.”

”I wonder at the parents! They say it's a marriage for love.”

”For love? What antediluvian notions you have! Can one talk of love in these days?” said the amba.s.sador's wife.

”What's to be done? It's a foolish old fas.h.i.+on that's kept up still,” said Vronsky.

”So much the worse for those who keep up the fas.h.i.+on. The only happy marriages I know are marriages of prudence.”

”Yes, but then how often the happiness of these prudent marriages flies away like dust just because that pa.s.sion turns up that they have refused to recognize,” said Vronsky.

”But by marriages of prudence we mean those in which both parties have sown their wild oats already. That's like scarlatina--one has to go through it and get it over.”

”Then they ought to find out how to vaccinate for love, like smallpox.”

”I was in love in my young days with a deacon,” said the Princess Myakaya. ”I don't know that it did me any good.”

”No; I imagine, joking apart, that to know love, one must make mistakes and then correct them,” said Princess Betsy.

”Even after marriage?” aid the amba.s.sador's wife playfully.

”'It's never too late to mend.'” The attache repeated the English proverb.

”Just so,” Betsy agreed; ”one must make mistakes and correct them. What do you think about it?” she turned to Anna, who, with a faintly perceptible resolute smile on her lips, was listening in silence to the conversation.

”I think,” said Anna, playing with the glove she had taken off, ”I think...if so many men, so many minds, certainly so many hearts, so many kinds of love.”

Vronsky was gazing at Anna, and with a fainting heart waiting for what she would say. He sighed as after a danger escaped when she uttered these words.

Anna suddenly turned to him.

”Oh, I have had a letter from Moscow. They write me that Kitty Shtcherbatskaya's very ill.”

”Really?” said Vronsky, knitting his brows.

Anna looked sternly at him.

”That doesn't interest you?”

”On the contrary, it does, very much. What was it exactly they told you, if I may know?” he questioned.

Anna got up and went to Betsy.

”Give me a cup of tea,” she said, standing at her table.

While Betsy was pouring out the tea, Vronsky went up to Anna.

”What is it they write to you?” he repeated.

”I often think men have no understanding of what's not honorable though they're always talking of it,” said Anna, without answering him. ”I've wanted to tell you so a long while,” she added, and moving a few steps away, she sat down at a table in a corner covered with alb.u.ms.

”I don't quite understand the meaning of your words,” he said, handing her the cup.