CHAPTER 1 HAPPY FAMILIES What are all alike? Every unhappy family is unhappy in its own way. Everything was in confusion at the Oblonsky's house. The wife had discovered that the husband was carrying on an intrigue with a French girl, who had been a governess in their family, and she had announced to her husband that she could not go on living in the same house with him. This position of affairs had now lasted three days, and not only the husband and wife themselves, but all the members of their family and household were painfully conscious of it. Every person in the house felt that there was no sense in their living together, and that the stray people brought together by chance in any inn had more in common with one another than they, the members of the family and household of the Oblonsky's. The wife did not leave her own room. The husband had not been at home for three days. The children ran wild all over the house. The English governess quarreled with the housekeeper and wrote to a friend asking her to look out for a new situation for her. The man-cook had walked off the day before just at dinner-time. The kitchen maid and the coachman had been given warning. Three days after the quarrel, Prince Stepan Arkadievich Oblonsky, Steve, as he was called in the fashionable world, woke up at his usual hour, that is, at eight o'clock in the morning, not in his wife's bedroom, but on the leather-covered sofa in his study. He turned over his stout, well-cared-for-person, on the springy sofa, as though he would sink into a long sleep again. He vigorously embraced the pillow on the other side and buried his face in it. But all at once he jumped up, sat on the sofa, and opened his eyes. Yes, yes. How was it now? He thought, going over his dream. Now, how was it? To be sure. Alibon was giving a dinner at Darmstadt. No, not Darmstadt, but something American. Yes, but then Darmstadt was in America. Yes, Alibon was giving a dinner on glass tables, and the tables sang Il mio tesoro. Not Il mio tesoro, though, but something better. And there were some sort of little decanters on the table. And they were women, too, he remembered. Stepan Arkadievich's eyes twinkled gaily, and he pondered with a smile. Yes, it was nice. Very nice. There was a great deal more that was delightful only. There is no putting it into words, or even expressing it in one's thoughts awake. And noticing a gleam of light peeping in beside one of the surge curtains, he cheerfully dropped his feet over the edge of the sofa, and felt about with them for his slippers, a present on his last birthday, worked for him by his wife on gold-colored Morocco. And as he had done every day for the last nine years, he stretched out his hand without getting up, towards the place where his dressing-gown always hung in his bedroom. And thereupon he suddenly remembered that he was not sleeping in his wife's room, but in his study. And why? The smile vanished from his face. He knitted his brows. Ah-ha-ha! Oh! he muttered, recalling everything that had happened. And again every detail of his quarrel with his wife was present to his imagination. All the hopelessness of his position. And worst of all, his own fault. Yes, she won't forgive me. And she can't forgive me. And the most awful thing about it is that it's all my fault. All my fault, though I'm not to blame. That's the whole point of the situation, he reflected. Oh-ho-ho! he kept repeating in despair, as he remembered the acutely painful sensations caused him by this quarrel. Most unpleasant of all was the first minute, when, on coming, happy and good-humored from the theatre with a huge pair in his hand for his wife, he had not found his wife in the drawing-room. To his surprise had not found her in the study, either, and saw her at last in the bedroom with the unlucky letter that revealed everything in her hand. She, his dolly, forever fussing and worrying over household details and limited in her ideas, as he considered, was sitting perfectly still with the letter in her hand, looking at him with an expression of horror, despair, and indignation. What's this? This, she asked, pointing to the letter, and that this recollection, step on Arkadyavich, as is so often the case, was not so much annoyed at the fact itself, as at the way in which he had met his wife's words. There happened to him at that instant what does happen to people when they are unexpectedly caught in something very disgraceful. He did not succeed in adapting his face to the position in which he was placed toward his wife by the discovery of his fault. Instead of being hurt, denying, defending himself, begging forgiveness, instead of remaining indifferent even, anything would have been better than what he did do. His face, utterly involuntarily, reflect spinal action reflected Stepan Arkadyavich, who was fond of physiology, utterly involuntarily assumed its habitual, good-humored, and therefore idiotic, smile. This idiotic smile he could not forgive himself. Catching sight of that smile, Dolly shuddered as though at physical pain, broke out with her characteristic heat into a flood of cruel words, and rushed out of the room. Since then she had refused to see her husband.  But what's to be done? What's to be done?" he said to himself in despair, and found no answer. End of Part 1 Chapter 1 Stepan Arkadyavich was a truthful man in his relations with himself. He was incapable of deceiving himself and persuading himself that he repented of his conduct. He could not, at this date, repent of the fact that he, a handsome, susceptible man of thirty-four, was not in love with his wife, the mother of five living and two dead children, and only a year younger than himself. All he repented of was that he had not succeeded in hiding it better from his wife. But he felt all the difficulty of his position, and was sorry for his wife, his children, and himself. Possibly he might have managed to conceal his sins better from his wife if he had anticipated that the knowledge of them would have had such an effect on her.  He had even supposed that she, a worn-out woman no longer young or good-looking and in no way remarkable or interesting, merely a good mother, ought from a sense of fairness to take an indulgent view. It had turned out quite the other way. Oh, it's awful! Oh, dear awful! Stepan Arkadyavich kept repeating to himself, and he could think of nothing to be done. And how well things were going up until now! How well we got on! She was contented and happy in her children. I never interfered with her in anything. I let her manage the children in the house just as she liked. It's true it's bad her having been at governess in our house. That's bad. There's something common, vulgar in flirting with one's governess. But what a governess! He vividly recalled the roguish black eyes of Mademoiselle Roland and her smile. But after all, while she was in the house, I kept myself in hand. And the worst of it all is that she's already—it seems as if Phil Luck would have had it so. Oh, but what is to be done? There was no solution. But that universal solution which life gives to all questions, even the most complex and insoluble—the answer is, one must live in the needs of the day. That is, forget oneself. To forget himself in sleep was impossible now, at least till night time. He could not go back now to the music sung by the decanter women. So he must forget himself in the dream of daily life. Then, we shall see, said Stepan Arkadyevich to himself. And, getting up, he put on a grey dressing gown lined with blue silk, tied the tassels in a knot, and drawing a deep breath of air into his broad bare chest, he walked to the window with his usual confident step, turning out his feet that carried his full frames so easily. He pulled up the blind and rang the bell loudly. It was at once answered by the appearance of an old friend, his valet, Matve, wearing his clothes, boots, and a telegram. Matve was followed by the barber with all the necessities for shaving. Are there any papers from the office? asked Stepan Arkadyevich, taking the telegram and seating himself at the looking-glass. On the table, replied Matve, glancing with inquiring sympathy at his master, and after a short pause he added with a sly smile, they've sent from the carriage-jobbers. Stepan Arkadyevich made no reply. He merely glanced at Matve in the looking-glass. In the glance, in which their eyes met in the looking-glass, it was clear that they understood one another. Stepan Arkadyevich's eyes asked, Why do you tell me that? Don't you know? Matve put his hands in his jacket-pockets, thrust out one leg, and gazed silently, good-humoredly, with a faint smile at his master. I told them to come on Sunday until then not to trouble you or themselves for nothing, he said. He had obviously prepared the sentence beforehand. Stepan Arkadyevich saw Matve wanted to make a joke and attract attention to himself. Tearing open the telegram, he read it through, guessing at the words misspelled as they always are in telegrams, and his face brightened. Matve, my sister Anna Arkadyevna will be here to-morrow, he said, checking for a minute the sleek, plump hand of the barber, cutting a pink path through his long, curly whiskers. Thank God! said Matve, showing by this response that he, like his master, realized the significance of this arrival. That is, that Anna Arkadyevna, the sister he was so fond of, might bring about a reconciliation between husband and wife. Alone or with her husband, inquired Matve. Stepan Arkadyevich could not answer, as the barber was at work on his upper lip, and he raised one finger. Matve nodded at the looking-glass. Alone! Is the room to be got ready upstairs? Inform Daria Alexandrovna, where she orders. Daria Alexandrovna? Matve repeated, as though in doubt. Yes, inform her. Here, take the telegram, give it to her, and then do what she tells you. You want to try it on, Matve understood, but he only said, Yes, sir.  The barber had gone. Daria Alexandrovna told me to inform you that she's going away.  He watched his master with his head on one side. Stepan Arkadyevich was silent a moment. Then a good-humored and rather pitiful smile showed itself on his handsome face. Eh, Matve? he said, shaking his head. It's all right, sir. She'll come round, said Matve. Come round? Yes, sir. Do you think so? Who's there? asked Stepan Arkadyevich, hearing the rustle of a woman's dress at the door. Its eye set a firm, pleasant woman's voice, and the stern, pogmarked face of Matrona Filominovna, the nurse, was thrust in at the door. Well, what is it, Matrona? queried Stepan Arkadyevich, getting up to her at the door. Although Stepan Arkadyevich was completely in the wrong as regards his wife, and was conscious of this himself, almost everyone in the house, even the nurse, Daria Alexendrovna's chief ally, was on his side. Well, what now, he asked disconsolidately. Go to her, sir. Own your fault again. Maybe God will aid you. She is suffering so it's sad to see her. And besides, everything in this house is topsy-turvy. You must have pity, sir, on the children. Beg her forgiveness, sir. There's no help for it. One must take the consequences. But she won't see me. You do your part. God is merciful. Pray to God, sir. Pray to God. Come, that'll do. You can go, said Stepan Arkadyevich, blushing suddenly. Well, now do dress me. He turned to Matve and threw off his dressing gown decisively. Matve was already holding up the shirt like a horse's collar. And blowing off some invisible speck, he slipped it with obvious pleasure over the well-groomed body of his master. End of Part 1, Chapter 2. When he was dressed, Stepan Arkadyevich sprinkled some scent on himself, pulled down his shirt-cuffs, distributed into his pockets his cigarettes, pocket-book matches and watch with its double-chain and seals, and shaking out his handkerchief, feeling himself clean, fragrant, healthy, and physically at ease, in spite of his unhappiness, he walked with a slight swing on each leg into the dining-room, where coffee was already waiting for him, and beside the coffee, letters and papers from the office. He read the letters. One was very unpleasant. From a merchant who was buying a forest on his wife's property. To sell this forest was absolutely essential, but at present, until he was reconciled with his wife, the subject could not be discussed. The most unpleasant thing of all was that his pecuniary interest should in this way enter into the question of his reconciliation with his wife, and the idea that he might be led on by his interests, that he might seek a reconciliation with his wife on account of the sale of the forest, that idea hurt him. When he had finished his letters, Stepan Arkadyevich moved the office papers close to him, rapidly looked through two pieces of business, made a few notes with a big pencil, and, pushing away the papers, turned to his coffee. As he sipped his coffee, he opened a still damp morning paper, and began reading it. Stepan Arkadyevich took in and read a liberal paper, not an extreme one, but one advocating the views held by the majority. And in spite of the fact that science, art, and politics had no special interest for him, he firmly held those views on all these subjects which were held by the majority and by his paper, and he only changed them when the majority changed them. Or more strictly speaking, he did not change them, but they imperceptibly changed of themselves within him. Stepan Arkadyevich had not chosen his political opinions or his views. These political opinions and views had come to him of themselves, just as he did not choose the shapes of his hat and coat, but simply took those that were being worn. And for him, living in a certain society, owing to the need ordinarily developed at years of discretion, for some degree of mental activity, to have views was just as indispensable as to have a hat. If there was a reason for his preferring liberal to conservative views, which were held also by many of his circle, it arose not from his considering liberalism more rational, but from it being in closer accordance with his manner of life. The liberal party said that in Russia everything is wrong, and certainly Stepan Arkadyevich had many debts and was decidedly short of money.  The liberal party said, or rather allowed it to be understood, that religion is only a curb to keep in check the barbarous classes of the people, and Stepan Arkadyevich could not get through even a short service without his legs aching from standing up, and could never make out what was the object of all the terrible and high-flown language about another world when life might be so very amusing in this world. And with all this Stepan Arkadyevich, who liked to joke, was fond of puzzling a plain man by saying that if he prided himself on his origin he ought not to stop at rurick and disown the first founder of his family, the monkey. And so liberalism had become a habit of Stepan Arkadyevich, and he liked his newspaper, as he did his cigar after dinner, for the slight fog it diffused in his brain. He read the leading article, in which it was maintained that it was quite senseless in our day to raise an outcry that radicalism was threatening to swallow up all the conservative elements, and that government ought to take measures to crush the revolutionary hydra. That, on the contrary, quote, in our opinion the danger lies not in that fantastic revolutionary hydra, but in the obstinacy of traditionalism clogging progress, etc., etc. He read another article, too, a financial one which alluded to Bentham and Mill, and dropped some innuendos reflecting on the ministry, with his characteristic quick-wittedness he caught the drift of each innuendo, divine whence it came, at whom and on what ground it was aimed, and that afforded him, as it always did, a certain satisfaction. But to-day that satisfaction was embittered by Matrona Philomanovna's advice and the unsatisfactory state of the household. He read, too, that Count Beist was rumored to have left for Weisbaden, and that one need have no more gray hair, and of the sale of a light carriage, and of a young person seeking a situation. But these items of information did not give him, as usual, a quiet, ironical gratification. Having finished the paper, a second cup of coffee, and a roll and butter, he got up, shaking the crumbs of the roll off his waistcoat, and squaring his broad chest he smiled joyously, not because there was anything particularly agreeable in his mind. The joyous smile was evoked by a good digestion. But this joyous smile at once recalled everything to him, and he grew thoughtful. Two childish voices, Stepan Arkadyevich, recognized the voices of Grisha, his youngest boy, and Tanya, his eldest girl, were heard outside the door. They were carrying something, and dropped it. "'I told you not to sit passengers on the roof,' said the little girl in English. "'There, pick them up!' "'Everything's in confusion,' thought Stepan Arkadyevich. "'There are the children running about by themselves, and going to the door he called them. They threw down the box that represented a train, and came into their father. The little girl, her father's favorite, ran up boldly, embraced him, and hung laughingly on his neck, enjoying as she always did the smell of scent that came from his whiskers.  But her father held her back.  Good morning,' he said, smiling to the boy who had come up to greet him. He was conscious that he loved the boy less, and always tried to be fair, but the boy felt it, and did not respond with a smile to his father's chilly smile. "'Mama, she's up,' answered the girl. Stepan Arkadyevich sighed. That means she's not slept again all night,' he thought. "'Well, is she cheerful?' The little girl knew that there was a quarrel between her father and mother, and that her mother could not be cheerful, and that her father must be aware of this, and that he was pretending when he asked about it so lightly. And she blushed for her father. He at once perceived it, and blushed too. "'I don't know,' she said. "'She did not say we must do our lessons, but she said we were to go for a walk with Miss Hool to Grandma Ma's.' "'Well, go, Tanya, my darling.  He took off the mantelpiece, where he had put it yesterday, a little box of sweets, and gave her, too, picking out her favorites, a chocolate and a fondant. "'For Grisha?' said the little girl, pointing to the chocolate. "'Yes, yes.' And still stroking her little shoulder, he kissed her on the roots of her hair and neck, and let her go. "'The carriage is ready,' said Matve, but there's someone to see you with a petition. "'Bin here, lull?' asked Stepan Arkadyevich. "'Half an hour. How many times have I told you to tell me at once?' "'One must let you drink your coffee in peace, at least,' said Matve, in the affectionately gruff tone with which it was impossible to be angry. "'Well, show the person up at once,' said Oblonsky, frowning with vexation. The petitioner, the widow of a staff-captain, Kalanin, came with a request impossible and unreasonable. But Stepan Arkadyevich, as he generally did, made her sit down, heard her to the end attentively without interrupting her, and gave her detailed advice as to how and to whom to apply, and even wrote her in his large, sprawling, good and legible hand, a confident and fluent little note to a personage who might be of use to her. Having got rid of the staff-captain's widow, Stepan Arkadyevich took his hat and stopped to recollect whether he had forgotten anything. It appeared that he had forgotten nothing except what he wanted to forget, his wife. "'Ah, yes,' he bowed his head, and his handsome face assumed a harassed expression. "'To go or not to go,' he said to himself. And an inner voice told him that he must not go, that nothing could come of it but falsity, that to amend, to set right their relations was impossible, because it was impossible to make her attractive again, and able to inspire love, or to make him an old man not susceptible to love, except deceit and lying nothing could come of it now, and deceit and lying were opposed to his nature. It must be some time, though. It can't go on like this,' he said, trying to give himself courage. He squared his chest, took out a cigarette, took two whiffs at it, flung it into a mother-of-pearl ashtray, and with rapid steps walked through the drawing-room, and opened the other door into his wife's bedroom. End of Chapter 3. Part 1 Chapter 4 of Anna Karenina, read for LibriVox.org by Kirsten Ferreri. Daria Alexendrovna in a dressing-jacket, and with her now scanty, once luxuriant and beautiful hair fastened up with hairpins on the nape of her neck, with a sunken thin face and large startled eyes, which looked prominent from the thinness of her face, was standing among a litter of all sorts of things scattered all over the room before an open bureau from which she was taking something. Hearing her husband's steps she stopped, looking toward the door, and trying assiduously to give her features a severe and contemptuous expression. She felt she was afraid of him, and afraid of the coming interview. She was just attempting to do what she had attempted to do ten times already in the last three days, to sort out the children's things and her own, so as to take them to her mother's. And again she could not bring herself to do this. But now, again, as each time before, she kept saying to herself that things cannot go on like this, that she must take some step to punish him, put him to shame, avenge on him some little part at least of the suffering he had caused her. She still continued to tell herself that she should leave him, but she was conscious that this was impossible. It was impossible because she could not get out of the habit of regarding him as her husband, and loving him. Besides this she realized that if even here in her own house she could hardly manage to look after her five children properly, they would be still worse off where she was going with them all. As it was, even in the course of these three days, the youngest was unwell from being given unwholesome soup, and the others had almost gone without their dinner the day before. She was conscious that it was impossible to go away, but cheating herself, she went on all the same sorting out her things and pretending that she was going. Seeing her husband, she dropped her hands into the drawer of the bureau as though looking for something, and only looked round at him when he had come quite up to her. But her face, through which she tried to give a severe and resolute expression, betrayed bewilderment and suffering. Dali, he said, in a subdued and timid voice. He bent his head toward his shoulder and tried to look pitiful and humble, but for all that he was radiant with freshness and health. In a rapid glance she scanned his figure that beamed with health and freshness.   The muscles of the cheek contracted on the right side of her pale, nervous face. What do you want, she said, in a rapid, deep, unnatural voice. Dali, he repeated, with a quiver in his voice, Anna is coming to-day. Well, what is that to me? I can't see her, she cried. But you must, really, Dali. Go away! Go away! She shrieked, not looking at him, as though this shriek were called up by physical pain. Stepan Arkadyevich could be calm when he thought of his wife. He could hope that she would come round, as Matvey expressed it, and could quietly go on reading his paper and drinking his coffee.  Oh, my God! What have I done? Dali, for God's sake, you know! He could not go on. There was a sob in his throat. She shut the bureau with a slam and glanced at him. Dali, what can I say? One thing. Forgive. Remember, cannot nine years of my life atone for an instant? She dropped her eyes and listened, expecting what he would say, as it were beseeching him in some way or other to make her believe differently. She thought of passion, he said, and would have gone on. But at that word, as at a pang of physical pain, her lips stiffened again, and again the muscles of her right cheek worked. Go away! Go out of the room, she shrieked, still more shrilly, and don't talk to me of your passion and your loathesomeness. She tried to go out, but tottered, and clung to the back of a chair to support herself. His face relaxed. His lips swelled. His eyes were swimming with tears. Dali, he said, sobbing now, for mercy's sake, think of the children. They're not to blame. I am to blame. And punish me. Make me expiate my fault. Anything I can do, I am ready to do. Anything. I am to blame. No words can express how much I am to blame. But Dali, forgive me. She sat down. He listened to her hard, heavy breathing, and he was unutterably sorry for her. She tried several times to begin to speak, but could not. Dali waited. You remember the children, Steeve, to play with them. But I remember them, and know that this means their ruin. She said, obviously, one of the phrases she had more than once repeated to herself in the course of the last few days. She had called him Steeve, and he glanced at her with gratitude and moved to take her hand, but she drew back from him with aversion. I think of the children, and for that reason I would do anything in the world to save them. I don't myself know how to save them, by taking them away from their father, or by leaving them with a vicious father. Yes, a vicious father. Tell me, after what has happened, can we live together? Is that possible? Tell me, is it possible, she repeated, raising her voice, after my husband, the father of my children, enters into a love affair with his own children's governess? But what could I do? What could I do, he kept saying, in a pitiful voice, not knowing what he was saying, as his head sank lower and lower. You are loathsome to me, repulsive, she shrieked, getting more and more heated. Your tears mean nothing. You've never loved me. You have neither heart nor honorable feeling.  With pain and wrath she uttered the word so terrible to herself, stranger. He looked at her, and the fury expressed in her face alarmed and amazed him. He did not understand how his pity for her exasperated her. She saw in him sympathy for her, but not love. No, she hates me. She will not forgive me, he thought. It is awful. Awful, he said. At that moment, in the next room, a child began to cry. Probably it had fallen down. Daria Alexandrovna listened, and her face suddenly softened. She seemed to be pulling herself together for a few seconds, as though she did not know where she was, and what she was doing, and getting up rapidly she moved towards the door. Well, she loves my child, he thought, noticing the change of her face at the child's cry. My child, how can she hate me? Dolly, one word more, he said, following her. If you come near me, I will call in the servants, the children. They may all know you are a scoundrel. I am going away at once, and you may live here with your mistress. And she went out, slamming the door. Stepan Arkadyovitch sighed, wiped his face, and with a subdued tread walked out of the room. Matve says she will come round, but how? I don't see the least chance of it. Oh, how horrible it is, and how vulgarly she shouted. He said to himself, remembering her shriek and the words scoundrel and mistress, and very likely the maids were listening. Horribly vulgar, horrible. Stepan Arkadyovitch stood a few seconds alone, wiped his face, squared his chest, and walked out of the room. It was Friday, and in the dining-room the German watchmaker was winding up the clock. Stepan Arkadyovitch remembered his joke about this punctual bald watchmaker, that the German was wound up for a whole lifetime himself to wind up watches, and he smiled. Stepan Arkadyovitch was fond of a joke. And maybe she will come round. That's a good expression, come round, he thought. I must repeat that. Matve, he shouted, arranged everything with Daria in the sitting-room for Anna Arkadyevna, he said to Matve when he came in. Yes, sir. Stepan Arkadyovitch put on his fur coat and went out onto the steps. You won't dine at home, said Matve, seeing him off? That's as it happens. But here's for the housekeeping, he said, taking ten rubles from his pocket-book. That'll be enough. Enough or not enough, we must make it do, said Matve, coming the carriage-door and stepping back onto the steps.  It was her solitary refuge from the household cares which crowded upon her directly she went out of it. Even now, in the short time she had been in the nursery, the English governess and Matrona Filmenovna had succeeded in putting several questions to her, which did not admit of delay, and which only she could answer. What were the children to put on for their walk? Should they have any milk? Should not a new cook be sent for? Oh, let me alone, let me alone, she said, and going back to her bedroom she sat down in the same place as she had sat when talking to her husband, clasping tightly her thin hands with the rings that slipped down on her bony fingers, and fell to going over in her memory all the conversation. He is gone. But has he broken it off with her, she thought? Can it be he sees her? Why didn't I ask him? No, reconciliation is impossible. Even if we remain in the same house we are strangers—strangers forever. She repeated again, with special significance, the words so dreadful to her, and how I loved him—my God, how I loved him! How I loved him! And now don't I love him? Don't I love him more than before? The most horrible thing is, she began, but did not finish her thought, because Matrona Filmenovna put in her head at the door. Let us send for my brother, she said. He can get a dinner, anyway, or we shall have the children getting nothing to eat till six again, like yesterday. Very well, I will come directly and see about it. But did you send for some new milk? And Darya Alexentrovna plunged into the duties of the day, and drowned her grief in them for a time. Stepanarkadyevich had learned easily at school, thanks to his excellent abilities. But he had been idle in mischievous, and therefore was one of the lowest in his class. But in spite of his habitually dissipated mode of life, his inferior grade in the service and his comparative youth, he occupied the honourable and lucrative position of president of one of the government boards at Moscow. This position he had received through his sister Anna's husband, Alexei Alexandrovich Karanin, who held one of the most important positions in the ministry to whose department the Moscow office belonged. But if Karanin had not got his brother-in-law this birth, then through a hundred other personages, brothers, sisters, cousins, uncles, and aunts, Steve Oblonsky would have received this post, or some other similar one, together with the salary of six thousand, absolutely needful for him, as his affairs, in spite of his wife's considerable property, were in an embarrassed condition. Both Moscow and Petersburg were friends and relations of Stepan Arkadyevich. He was born in the midst of those who had been and are the powerful ones of this world. One third of the men in the government, the older men, had been friends of his fathers, and had known him in petticoats. Another third were his intimate chums, and the remainder were friendly acquaintances. Consequently the distributors of earthly blessings in the shapes of places, rents, shares, and such were all his friends, and could not overlook one of their own set, and Oblonsky had no need to make any special exertion to get a lucrative post. He had only not to refuse things, not to show jealousy, not to be quarrelsome or take offense, all of which from his characteristic good nature he never did. It would have struck him as absurd if he had been told that he would not get a position with the salary he required, especially as he expected nothing out of the way. He only wanted what the men of his own age and standing did get, and he was no worse qualified for performing duties of the kind than any other man. Stepan Arkadyevich was not merely liked by all who knew him for his good humour, but for his bright disposition and his unquestionable honesty. In him, in his handsome, radiant figure, his sparkling eyes, black hair and eyebrows, and the whitened red of his face, there was something which produced a physical effect of kindness and good humour on the people who met him. Ah! Steva Oblunsky here he is! was almost always said with a smile of delight on meeting him. Even though it happened at times that after a conversation with him it seemed that nothing particularly delightful had happened, the next day and the next everyone was just as delighted at meeting him again. After filling for three years the post of president of one of the government boards at Moscow, Stepan Arkadyevich had won the respect, as well as the liking of his fellow officials, the boardenates, and superiors, and all who had had business with him. The principal qualities in Stepan Arkadyevich which had gained him this universal respect in the service consisted in the first place of his extreme indulgence for others, founded on a consciousness of his own shortcomings, second of his perfect liberalism, not the liberalism he read of in the papers, but the liberalism that was in his blood, in virtue of which he treated all men perfectly equally and exactly the same, whatever their fortune or calling might be, and thirdly, the most important point, his complete indifference to the business in which he was engaged, in consequence of which he was never carried away, and never made mistakes. On reaching the offices of the board, Stepan Arkadyevich, escorted by a deferential porter with a portfolio, went into his little private room, put on his uniform, and went into the boardroom. The clerks and copyists all rose, greeting him with good humor deference. Stepan Arkadyevich moved quickly, as ever to his place, shook hands with his colleagues, and sat down. He made a joke or two, and talked just as much as was consistent with due decorum, and began work. No one knew better than Stepan Arkadyevich how to hit on the exact line between freedom, simplicity, and official stiffness necessary for the agreeable conduct of business. A secretary, with the good humor deference common to everyone in Stepan Arkadyevich's office, came up with papers, and began to speak in the familiar and easy tone which had been introduced by Stepan Arkadyevich. We've succeeded in getting the information from the Government Department of Pensa. Here would you care? You've got them at last, said Stepan Arkadyevich, laying his finger on the paper. Now, gentlemen! And the sitting of the board began.  And his eyes were laughing during the reading of the report. Till two o'clock the sitting would go on without a break, and at two o'clock there would be an interval and luncheon. It was not yet two when the large glass doors of the boardroom suddenly opened, and someone came in. All the officials sitting on the further side under the portrait of the Tsar and the Eagle, delighted at any distraction, looked round at the door. But the doorkeeper standing at the door at once drove out the intruder, and closed the glass door behind him. When the case had been read through, Stepan Arkadyevich got up and stretched, and by way of tribute to the liberalism of the times, took out a cigarette in the boardroom and went into his private room. Two of the members of the board, the old veteran in the service, Nikitin, and the Camerjunker Grinovich, went in with him. We shall have time to finish after lunch, said Stepan Arkadyevich. We be sure we shall, said Nikitin. A pretty sharp fellow this foemine must be, said Grinovich, of one of the persons taking place in the case they were examining. Stepan Arkadyevich frowned at Grinovich's words, giving him thereby to understand that it was improper to pass judgment prematurely, and made no reply. Who is that came in, he asked the doorkeeper. Someone, your Excellency, crept in without permission directly my back was turned. He was asking for you. I told him, when the members come out, then—where is he? Maybe he's gone into the passage, but here he comes anyway. That's he, said the doorkeeper, pointing to a strongly built, broad shouldered man with a curly beard, who, without taking off his sheepskin cap, was running lightly and rapidly up the worn steps of the stone staircase. One of the members, going down, a lean official with a portfolio, stood out of his way, and looked disapprovingly at the legs of the stranger, then glanced inquiringly at Oblonsky. Stepan Arkadyevich was standing at the top of the stairs. His good-naturedly beaming face above the embroidered collar of his uniform beamed more than ever when he recognized the man coming up. Why, it's actually you, Levin, at last, he said, with a friendly mocking smile, scanning Levin as he approached. How is it you have dained to look me up in this den, said Stepan Arkadyevich, and not content with shaking hands, he kissed his friend. Have you been here long? I've just come, and very much wanted to see you, said Levin, looking shyly and at the same time angrily and uneasily around. Well, let's go into my rooms, said Stepan Arkadyevich, who knew his friend's sensitive and irritable shyness, and taking his arm he drew him along, as though guiding him through dangers. Stepan Arkadyevich was on familiar terms with almost all his acquaintances, and called almost all of them by their Christian names—old men of sixty, boys of twenty, actors, ministers, merchants, and adjutant generals—so that many of his intimate chums were to be found at the extreme ends of the social ladder, and would have been very much surprised to learn that they had, through the medium of a bluntsky, something in common. He was the familiar friend of every one with whom he took a glass of champagne, and he took a glass of champagne with every one, and when in consequence he meant any of his disreputable chums, as he used in joke to call many of his friends in the presence of his subordinates, he well knew how, with his characteristic tact, to diminish the disagreeable impression made on them. Levin was not a disreputable chum, but a bluntsky, with his ready tact, felt that Levin fancied he might not care to show his intimacy with him before his subordinates, and so he made haste to take him off into his room. Levin was almost of the same age as a bluntsky. Their intimacy did not rest merely on champagne. Levin had been the friend and companion of his early youth. They were fond of one another in spite of the difference in their characters and tastes, as friends are fond of one another who have been together in early youth. But in spite of this, each of them, as is often the way with men who have selected careers of different kinds, though in discussion he would even justify the other's career, in his heart despised it. It seemed to each of them that the life he led himself was the only real life, and the life led by his friend was a mere phantasm. A bluntsky could not restain a slight smocking smile at the sight of Levin. How often he had seen him come up to Moscow from the country where he was doing something what precisely Stepan Arkadyovitch could never quite make out, and indeed he took no interest in the matter. Levin arrived in Moscow always excited and in a hurry, rather ill at ease and irritated by his own wantonies, and for the most part with a perfectly new, unexpected view of things. Stepan Arkadyovitch laughed at this, and liked it. In the same way Levin in his heart despised the town mode of life of his friend, and his official duties which he laughed at and regarded as trifling, but the difference was that a bluntsky, as he was doing the same as everyone did, laughed complacently and good humorately, while Levin laughed without complacency, and sometimes angrily. "'We've long been expecting you,' said Stepan Arkadyovitch, going into his room and letting Levin's hand go as though to show that here all danger was over. "'I am very, very glad to see you,' he said. "'Well, how are you? Eh? When did you come?' Levin was silent, looking at the unknown faces of a bluntsky's two companions, and especially at the hand of the elegant Grinovitch, who had such long white fingers, such long yellow filbert-shaped nails, and such huge shining studs on the shirt-cuff, that apparently they absorbed all his attention, and allowed him no freedom of thought. A bluntsky noticed this at once and smiled. "'Ah, to be sure, let me introduce you,' he said. "'My colleagues, Philip Ivanovich Nikitin, Mikhail Stanislavich Grinovitch, and turning to Levin, a district counsellor, a modern district councilman, a gymnast who lifts thirteen stone with one hand, a cattle-breeder and sportsman, and my friend, Konstantin Dmitrievitch Levin, the brother of Sergei Ivanovitch Kostnyshev.' "'Delighted,' said the veteran. "'I have the honour of knowing your brother, Sergei Ivanovitch,' said Grinovitch, holding out his slender hand with its long nails.' Levin frowned, shook hands coldly, and at once turned to a bluntsky. Though he had great respect for his half-brother, an author well known to all Russia, he could not endure it when people treated him not as Konstantin Levin, but as the brother of the celebrated Kostnyshev. "'No, I am no longer a district counsellor. I've quarrelled with them all and don't go to meetings any more,' he said, turning to a bluntsky. "'You've been quick about it,' said a bluntsky with a smile. "'But how? Why?' "'It's a long story. I'll tell you sometimes,' said Levin, but he began telling him at once. "'Well, to put it shortly, I was convinced that nothing was redone by the district councils, or ever could be,' he began, as though someone had just insulted him. On one side it's a plaything. They play at being a parliament, and I'm neither young enough nor old enough to find amusement in playthings. And on the other side,' he stammered, "'it's a means for the coterie of the district to make money. Formerly they had wardships, courts of justice. Now they have the district council—not in the form of bribes, but in the form of unearned salary,' he said, as hotly as though someone of those present had opposed his opinion. "'Aha! You're in a new phase again, I see.' "'A conservative,' said Stepan Arkadyevich. "'However, we can go into that later.' "'Yes, later. But I wanted to see you,' said Levin, looking with hatred at Grinovich's hand.' Stepan Arkadyevich gave a scarcely perceptible smile. "'How was it you used to say you would never wear European dress again?' he said, scanning his new suit, obviously cut by a French tailor. "'Ah, I see—a new phase.' Levin suddenly blushed, not as grown men blush slightly without being themselves aware of it, but as boys blush, feeling that they are ridiculous through their shyness, and consequently ashamed of it, and blushing still more, almost to the point of tears. And it was so strange to see this sensible manly face in such a childish plight that Oblunski left off looking at him. "'Oh, where shall we meet? You know I very much want to talk to you,' said Levin.' Oblunski seemed to ponder. "'I'll tell you what. Let's go to Gurren's for lunch, and then we can talk. I'm free till three.' No answered Levin, after an instant's thought. I've got to go on somewhere else. "'All right, then, let's dine together.' "'Dine together? But I have nothing very particular, only a few words to say and a question I want to ask you, and we can have a talk afterward.' "'Well, say the few words, then, at once, and we'll gossip after dinner.' "'Well, it's this,' said Levin. "'But it's of no importance, though.' His face, all at once, took an expression of anger from the effort he was making to surmount his shyness. "'What are the Strabotskis doing?' "'Everything as it used to be,' he said. Stepan Arkadyevich, who had long known that Levin was in love with his sister-in-law Kitty, gave a hardly perceptible smile, and his eyes sparkled merrily. "'You said a few words, but I can't answer in a few words, because—excuse me a minute.' A secretary came in with respectful familiarity and the modest consciousness characteristic of every secretary of superiority to his chief in the knowledge of their business. He went up to Oblonsky with some papers, and began, under pretense of asking a question, to explain some objection. Stepan Arkadyevich, without hearing him out, laid his hand genially on the secretary's sleeve. "'No, you do as I told you,' he said, softening his words with a smile, and with a brief explanation of his view of the matter, he turned away from the papers and said, "'So do it that way if you please, Zehar Nikitich.'" The secretary retired in confusion. During the consultation with the secretary, Levin had completely recovered from his embarrassment. He was standing with his elbows on the back of a chair, and on his face was a look of ironical attention. "'I don't understand it, I don't understand it,' he said. "'What don't you understand?' said Oblonsky, smiling as brightly as ever, and picking up a cigarette.  "'I don't understand what you're doing,' said Levin, shrugging his shoulders. How can you do it seriously?' "'Why not? Why, because there's nothing in it. You think so, but we're overwhelmed with work.' "'On paper. But there, you've a gift for it,' added Levin. "'That's to say you think there's a lack of something in me.'" "'Perhaps so,' said Levin. "'But all the same, I admire your grandeur, and I'm proud that I have a friend in such a great person. You've not answered my question, though,' he went on, with a desperate effort, looking Oblonsky straight in the face. "'Oh, that's all very well. You wait a bit, and you'll come to this yourself. It's very nice for you to have over six thousand acres in the Karazinski district and such muscles and the freshness of a girl of twelve. Still, you'll be one of us one day. Yes, as to your question, there's no change, but it's a pity you've been away so long.'" "'Oh, I so,' Levin queried, panic-stricken. "'Oh, nothing,' responded Oblonsky. "'We'll talk it over. But what's brought you up to town?' "'Oh, we'll talk about that too later on,' said Levin, reddening again up to his ears. "'All right, I see,' said Steppen Arkadyovitch. "'I should ask you to come to us, you know, but my wife's not quite the thing. But I'll tell you what. If you want to see them, they're sure to be at the zoological gardens from four to five. Kitty skates.  So, good-bye till then.  "'No, truly.'" And Levin went out of the room, only when he was in the doorway remembering that he had forgotten to take leave of Oblonsky's colleagues. "'That gentleman must be a man of great energy,' said Grinovitch, when Levin had gone away. "'Yes, my dear boy,' said Steppen Arkadyovitch, nodding his head, "'he's a lucky fellow. Over six thousand acres in the Kharazinsky district. Everything before him. And what youth and vigor! Not like some of us!' "'You have a great deal to complain of, haven't you, Steppen Arkadyovitch?' "'Ah, yes, I'm in a poor way. A bad way,' said Steppen Arkadyovitch, with a heavy sigh. End of Part One, Chapter Five. Anna Karenina. Book One, Chapter Six. Read for LibriVox.org by Kirsten Ferreri. When Oblonsky asked Levin what had brought him to town, Levin blushed, and was furious with himself for blushing, because he could not answer, I have come to make your sister-in-law an offer, though that was precisely what he had come for. The families of the Levin's and the Sturbatsky's were old, noble Moscow families, and had always been on intimate and friendly terms. This intimacy had grown still closer during Levin's student days. He had both prepared for the university with the young Prince Sturbatsky, the brother of Kitty and Dolly, and had entered at the same time with him. In those days, Levin used often to be in the Sturbatsky's house, and he was in love with the Sturbatsky household. Strange as it may appear, it was with the household, the family, that Constantine Levin was in love, especially with the feminine half of the household. Levin did not remember his own mother, and his only sister was older than he was, so it was that in the Sturbatsky's house he saw for the first time that inner life of an old, noble, cultivated, and honorable family, of which he had been deprived by the death of his father and mother. All the members of that family, especially the feminine half, were pictured by him as it were wrapped about with a mysterious poetical veil, and he not only perceived no defects whatever in them, but under the poetical veil that showed them he assumed the existence of the loftiest sentiments and every possible perfection. Wyatt was the three young ladies that had one day to speak French and the next English. Wyatt was that at certain hours they played by turns on the piano, the sounds of which were audible in their brother's room above where the students used to work, why they were visited by those professors of French literature, of music, of drawing, of dancing. Wyatt's certain hours all three young ladies, with Mademoiselle Lidon, drove in the coach to the Tversky Boulevard, dressed in their satin cloaks, Dolly in a long one, Natalia in a half long one, and Kitty in one so short that her shapely legs, in tightly drawn red stockings, were visible to all beholders. Wyatt was they had to walk about the Tversky Boulevard escorted by a footman with a gold cockade in his hat. All this and much more that was done in their mysterious world he did not understand. But he was sure that everything that was done there was very good, and he was in love precisely with the mystery of the proceedings. In his student days he had all but been in love with the eldest, Dolly, but she was soon married to Oblonsky. Then he began being in love with the second. He felt as it were that he had to be in love with one of the sisters, only he could not quite make out which. But Natalia too had hardly made her appearance in the world when she married the diplomat Lavov. Kitty was still a child when Levine left the university. Young Sturbatsky went into the navy, was drowned in the Baltic, and Levine's relations with the Sturbatsky's, in spite of his friendship with Oblonsky, became less intimate. But when early in the winter of this year Levine came to Moscow, after a year in the country, and saw the Sturbatsky's, he realized which of the sisters he was indeed destined to love. One would have thought that nothing could be simpler than for him, a man of good family, rather rich than poor, and thirty-two years old to make the young Princess Sturbatsky an offer of marriage. In all likelihood he would at once have been looked upon as a good match. But Levine was in love, and so it seemed to him that Kitty was so perfect in every respect, that she was a creature far above everything earthly, and that he was a creature so low and earthly that it could not even be conceived that other people and she herself could regard him as worthy of her. After spending two months in Moscow in a state of enchantment, seeing Kitty almost every day in society, into which he went so as to meet her, he abruptly decided that it could not be, and went back to the country. Levine's conviction that it could not be was founded on the idea that in the eyes of her family he was a disadvantageous and worthless match for the charming Kitty, and that Kitty herself could not love him. In her family's eyes he had no ordinary definite career and position in society, while his contemporaries by this time, when he was thirty-two, were already one a colonel and another a professor, another president of a bank and railways, or president of a board like Oblonsky, but he—he knew very well how he must appear to others—was a country gentleman, occupied in breeding cattle, shooting game, and building barns—in other words, a fellow of no ability, who had not turned out well, and who was doing just what, according to the ideas of the world, is done by people fit for nothing else.  Moreover, his attitude to Kitty in the past, the attitude of a grown-up person to a child arising from his friendship with her brother, seemed to him yet another obstacle to love. An ugly, good-natured man, as he considered himself, might he supposed be liked as a friend, but to be loved with such a love as that with which he loved Kitty, one would need to be a handsome and, still more, a distinguished man. He had heard that women often did care for ugly and ordinary men, but he did not believe it, for he judged by himself, and he could not himself have loved any but beautiful, mysterious, and exceptional women. But after spending two months alone in the country, he was convinced that this was not one of those passions of which he had experience in his early youth, that this feeling gave him not an instant rest, that he could not live without deciding the question, would she or would she not be his wife, and that his despair had arisen only from his imaginings, that he had no sort of proof that he would be rejected, and he had now come to Moscow with a firm determination to make an offer, and get married if he were accepted, or he could not conceive what would become of him if he were rejected. CHAPTER VII of Anna Karenina, read for LibriVox.org by Kirsten Ferreri. On arriving in Moscow by a morning train, Levine had put up at the house of his elder half-brother, Kuznicev. After changing his clothes he went down to his brother's study, to talk to him at once about the object of his visit, and to ask his advice. But his brother was not alone. With him there was a well known professor of philosophy, who had come from Harkov expressly to clear up a difference that had arisen between them on a very important philosophical question. The professor was carrying on a hot crusade against materialists. Sergei Kuznicev had been following this crusade with interest, and after reading the professor's last article he had written him a letter stating his objections. He accused the professor of making two great concessions to the materialists, and the professor had promptly appeared, to argue the matter out. The point in discussion was the question then in vogue, is there a line to be drawn between psychological and physiological phenomena in man, and if so, where? Sergei Ivanovich met his brother with the smile of chilly friendliness he always had for everyone, and introducing him to the professor went on with the conversation. A little man in spectacles with a narrow forehead tore himself from the discussion for an instant to greet Levine, and then went on talking without paying any further attention to him. Levine sat down to wait till the professor should go, but he soon began to get interested in the subject under discussion. Levine had come across the magazine articles about which they were disputing, and had read them, interested in them as a development of the first principles of science, familiar to him as a natural science student at the university. But he had never connected these scientific deductions as to the origin of man as an animal, as to reflex action, biology, and sociology, with those questions as to the meaning of life and death to himself, which had of late been more and more often on his mind. As he listened to his brother's argument with the professor, he noticed that they connected these scientific questions with those spiritual problems, that at times they almost touched on the latter, but every time they were close upon what seemed to him the chief point, they promptly beat a hasty retreat, and plunged again into a sea of subtle distinctions, reservations, quotations, illusions, and appeals to authority, and it was with difficulty that he understood what they were talking about. I cannot admit it, said Sergei Ivanovich, with his habitual clearness, precision of expression and elegance of phrase. I cannot in any case agree with Kais that my whole conception of the external world has been derived from perceptions. The most fundamental idea, the idea of existence, has not been received by me through sensation. Indeed, there is no special sense working for the transmission of such an idea. Yes, but they, Vert and Knaust and Pripozov would answer that your consciousness of existence is derived from the conjunction of all your sensations, that that consciousness of existence is the result of your sensations. Vert, indeed, says plainly that, assuming there are no sensations, it follows that there is no idea of existence. I maintain the contrary, began Sergei Ivanovich. But here it seemed to Levine that, just as they were close upon the real point of the matter, they were again retreating, and he made up his mind to put a question to the Professor. More to that. If my senses are annihilated, if my body is dead, I can have no existence of any sort, he queried. The Professor, in annoyance, and as it were a mental suffering at the interruption, looked round at the strange inquirer, more like a barge man than a philosopher, and turned his eyes upon Sergei Ivanovich, as though to ask, what is one to say to him? But Sergei Ivanovich had been talking with far less heat and one sidedness than the Professor, and who had sufficient breadth of mind to answer the Professor, and at the same time comprehend the simple and natural point of view from which the question was put, smiled and said, that question we have no right to answer as yet. We have not the requisite data, chimed in the Professor, and he went back to his argument. No, he said, I would point out the fact that if, as preposive directly asserts, perception is based on sensation, then we are bound to distinguish sharply between these two conceptions. Levine listened no more, and simply waited for the Professor to go. CHAPTER VIII When the Professor had gone, Sergei Ivanovich turned to his brother. Delighted that you've come. For some time, is it? How's your farming getting on? Levine knew that his elder brother took little interest in farming, and only put the question in deference to him, and so he only told him about the sale of his wheat and money-matters. Levine had meant to tell his brother of his determination to get married, and to ask his advice. He had indeed firmly resolved to do so. But after seeing his brother, listening to his conversation with the Professor, hearing afterwards the unconsciously patronizing tone in which his brother questioned him about agricultural matters, their mother's property had not been divided, and Levine took charge of both their shares, Levine felt that he could not, for some reason, begin to talk to him of his intention of marrying. He felt that his brother would not look at it as he would have wished him to. Well, how's your district council doing? asked Sergei Ivanovich, who was greatly interested in these local boards, and attached great importance to them. I really don't know. What? Why, surely you're a member of the board? No, I'm not a member now. I've resigned, answered Levine, and I no longer attend the meetings. What a pity! commented Sergei Ivanovich, frowning.  That's how it always is, Sergei Ivanovich interrupted him. We Russians are always like that. Perhaps it's our strong point, really, the faculty of seeing our own shortcomings, but we overdo it. We comfort ourselves with irony when we always have on the tip of our tongues. All I say is, give such rights as our local self-government to any other European people, why the Germans or the English would have worked their way to freedom from them, while we simply turned them into ridicule. But how can it be helped? said Levine penitently. It was my last effort, and I did try with all my soul. I can't. I'm no good at it. It's not that you're no good at it, said Sergei Ivanovich. It's that you don't look at it as you should. Perhaps not, Levine answered dejectedly. Oh! do you know Brother Nicolais turned up again? This Brother Nicolais was the elder brother of Constantine Levine and half-brother of Sergei Ivanovich. A man utterly ruined, who had dissipated the greater part of his fortune, was living in the strangest and lowest company, and had quarreled with his brothers. What did you say? Levine cried with horror. How do you know? Prokofi saw him in the street. Here in Moscow? Where is he? Do you know? Levine got up from his chair as though on the point of starting off at once. I'm sorry I told you, said Sergei Ivanovich, shaking his head at his younger brother's excitement. I sent to find out where he's living and sent him his IOU to Trubin, which I paid. This is the answer he sent me. And Sergei Ivanovich took a note from under a paper-weight, and handed it to his brother. Levine read in the queer familiar handwriting. I humbly beg you to leave me in peace. That's the only favour I ask of my gracious brothers, Nicolais Levine. Levine read it, and without raising his head stood with the note in his hands opposite Sergei Ivanovich. There was a struggle in his heart between the desire to forget his unhappy brother for the time, and the consciousness that it would be based to do so. He obviously wants to offend me, pursued Sergei Ivanovich, but he cannot offend me, and I should have wished with all my heart to assist him, but I know it's impossible to do that. Yes, yes, repeated Levine. I understand and appreciate your attitude to him, but I shall go and see him. If you want to do, but I shouldn't advise it, said Sergei Ivanovich. As regards myself, I have no fear of your doing so. You will not make you quarrel with me, but for your own sake I should say you would do better not to go. You can't do him any good. Still, do as you please. Very likely I can't do any good, but I feel—especially at such a moment—but that's another thing. I feel I could not be at peace. Well, that I don't understand, said Sergei Ivanovich. One thing I do understand, he added, it's a lesson in humility. I have come to look very differently and more charitably on what is called infamous since brother Nicolais has become what he is. You know what he did. Oh, it's awful, awful, repeated Levine. After obtaining his brother's address from Sergei Ivanovich's footmen, Levine was on the point of setting off at once to see him, but on second thought, Dickey decided he ought to put off his visit until the evening. The first thing to do, to set his heart at rest, was to accomplish what he had come to Moscow for. From his brothers, Levine went to Oblunsky's office, and on getting news of the Sturbatsky's from him, he drove to the place where he had been told he might find Kitty. 8 At four o'clock, conscious of his throbbing heart, Levine stepped out of a hired sledge at the zoological gardens and turned along the path to the frozen mounds and the skating-ground, knowing that he would certainly find her there, as he had seen the Sturbatsky's carriage at the entrance. It was a bright frosty day. Rows of carriages, sledges, drivers, and policemen were standing in the approach. Crowds of well-dressed people, with hats brightened the sun, swarmed about the entrance, and along the well-swept little paths between the little houses adorned with carving in the Russian style. The old, curly birches of the gardens, all their twigs laden with snow, looked as though freshly decked in sacred vestments. He walked along the path toward the skating-ground and kept saying to himself, You mustn't be excited, you must be calm. What's the matter with you? What do you want? Be quiet, stupid." He conjured his heart. And the more he tried to compose himself, the more breathless he found himself. An acquaintance met him and called him by his name, but Levine did not even recognize him. He went toward the mounds, whence came the clank of the chains of sledges as they slipped down or were dragged up, the rumble of the sliding sledges and the sounds of merry voices. He walked on a few steps, and the skating-ground lay open before his eyes, and at once, amidst all the skaters, he knew her. He knew she was there by the rapture and the terror that seized his heart. She was standing talking to a lady at the opposite end of the ground. There was apparently nothing striking either in her dress or in her attitude, but for Levine she was as easy to find in that crowd as a rose among nettles. Everything was made bright by her. She was the smile that shed light on all round her. Is it possible that I can go over there on the ice? Go up to her, he thought. The place where she stood seemed to him a holy shrine, unapproachable. And there was one moment when he was almost retreating so overwhelmed was he with terror. He had to make an effort to master himself and to remind himself that people of all sorts were moving about her, and that he too might come there to skate. He walked down for a long while avoiding looking at her as at the sun, but seeing her as one does the sun without looking. On that day of the week and at that time of day people of one set, all acquainted with one another, used to meet on the ice. There were crack skaters there showing off their skill and learners clinging to chairs with timid, awkward movements, boys and elderly people skating with hygienic motives. They seemed to Levine an elect band of blissful beings because they were here, near her. All the skaters it seemed with perfect self-possession skated towards her, skated by her, even spoke to her, and were happy quite apart from her, enjoying the capital ice and the fine weather. Nikolai Strabotsky, kitty's cousin, in a short jacket and tight trousers, was sitting on a garden seat with his skates on. Seeing Levine he shouted to him, ah, the first skater in Russia, mean here long? First rate ice, do put your skates on! I haven't got my skates, Levine answered, marvelling at this boldness and ease in her presence and not for one second losing sight of her, though he did not look at her. He felt as though the sun were coming near him. She was in a corner, and turning out her slender feet in their high boots with obvious timidity she skated towards him. A boy in Russian dress, desperately waving his arms and bowed down to the ground, overtook her. She skated a little uncertainly, taking her hands out of the little muff that hung on a cord, she held them ready for any emergency, and looking towards Levine, whom she had recognized, she smiled at him, and at her own fears. When she had got round the turn she gave herself a push off with one foot and skated straight up to Strabotsky. Clutching at his arm, she nodded, smiling, to Levine. She was more splendid than he had imagined her.  The childishness of her expression, together with the delicate beauty of her figure, made up her special charm, and that he fully realized. But what always struck him in her as something unlooked for was the expression of her eyes, soft, serene, and truthful, and above all her smile, which always transported Levine to an enchanted world where he felt himself softened and tender as he remembered himself in some days of his early childhood. "'Have you been here long?' she said, giving him her hand. "'Thank you,' she added, as he picked up the handkerchief that had fallen out of her muff. "'I—I've not long—' Yesterday—' I mean—' Today—' "'I arrived,' answered Levine, in his emotion not at once understanding the question. "'I was meaning to come see you,' he said, and then, recollecting with one intention he was trying to see her, he promptly was overcome with confusion and blushed. "'I didn't know you could skate and skate so well.' She looked at him earnestly, as though wishing to make out the cause of his confusion. "'Your praise is worth having. The tradition is kept up here that you are the best of skaters,' she said, with her little black-loved hand brushing a grain of whore-frost off her muff. "'Yes, I used to want to skate with passion. I wanted to reach perfection.' "'You do everything with passion,' I think,' she said, smiling. "'I should so like to see how you skate. Put on skates and let us skate together.' "'Skate together? Can that be possible?' thought Levine, gazing at her. "'I'll put them on directly,' he said, and he went off to get skates. "'It's a long while since we've seen you here, sir,' said the attendant, supporting his foot and screwing on the heel of the skate. "'Except you, there's none of the gentleman-first-rate skaters.' "'Will that be all right?' said he, tightening the strap. "'Oh, yes, yes, make haste, please,' answered Levine, with difficulty restraining the smile of rapture which would overspread his face. "'Yes,' he thought. "'This now is life. This is happiness. "'Together,' she said. "'Let us skate together. Speak to her now?' "'But that's just why I'm afraid to speak, because I'm happy now. Happy in hope, anyway.' "'And then?' "'But I must. I must. Away with weakness.'" Levine rose to his feet, took off his overcoat, and scurrying over the rough ice round the hut came out on the smooth ice and skated without effort, as it were, by simple exercise of Will, increasing and slackening speed and turning his course. He approached with timidity, but again her smile reassured him. She gave him her hand, and they set off side by side, going faster and faster, and the more rapidly they moved the more tightly she grasped his hand. "'With you I should soon learn. I somehow feel confidence in you,' she said to him. "'And I have confidence myself when you are leaning on me,' he said, but was at once panic-stricken at what he had said, and blushed. And indeed no sooner had he uttered those words when all at once, like the sun going behind a cloud, her face lost all its friendliness, and Levine detected the familiar change in her expression that denoted the working of a thought. A crease showed on her smooth brow. "'Is there anything troubling you?' Though I have no right to ask such a question,' he added hurriedly. "'Oh, why so? No, I have nothing to trouble me,' she responded coldly, and she added immediately. "'You haven't seen Mademoiselle Linole, have you?' "'Not yet.' "'Go and speak to her.  I've offended her. Lord help me,' thought Levine, and he flew off toward the old French woman with the grey ringlets, who was sitting on a bench. Smiling and showing her false teeth she greeted him as an old friend. "'Yes, you see, we're growing up,' she said, glancing toward Kitty, and growing old. "'Tiny bear has grown big now,' pursued the French woman, laughing, and she reminded him of his joke about the three young ladies, whom he had compared to the three bears in the English nursery-tale. "'Do you remember that's what you used to call them?' He remembered absolutely nothing, but she had been laughing at the joke for ten years now, and was fond of it. "'Now go and skate, go and skate! Our Kitty has learned to skate nicely, hasn't she?' When Levine darted up to Kitty her face was no longer stern. Her eyes looked at him with the same sincerity and friendliness, but Levine fancied that in her friendliness there was a certain note of deliberate composure, and he felt depressed. After talking a little of her old governess and her peculiarities, she questioned him about his life. "'Surely you must be dull in the country in the winter, aren't you?' she said. "'No, I'm not dull. I'm very busy,' he said, feeling that she was holding him in check by composed tone. She would not have the force to break through, just as it had been at the beginning of the winter. "'Are you going to stay in town long?' Kitty questioned him. "'I don't know,' he answered, not thinking of what he was saying. The thought that if he were held in check by her tone of quiet friendliness he would end by going back again without deciding anything came into his mind, and he resolved to make a struggle against it. "'How is it you don't know?' "'I don't know. It depends on you,' he said, and was immediately horrors-stricken at his own words. Whether it was that she had heard his words or that she did not want to hear them, she made a sort of stumble, twice struck out, and hurriedly skated away from him. She skated up to Mademoiselle Lyon, said something to her, and went toward the pavilion where the ladies took off their skates. "'My God, what have I done? Merciful God, help me! Guide me!' said Levine, praying inwardly, and at the same time feeling a need of violent exercise he skated about describing inner and outer circles. At that moment one of the young men, the best of the skaters of that day, came out of the coffee-house in his skates with a cigarette in his mouth. Taking a run he dashed down the steps in his skates, crashing and bounding up and down. He flew down, and without even changing the position of his hands, skated away over the ice. "'Ah, that's a new trick,' said Levine, and he promptly ran up to the top to do this new trick. "'Don't break your neck, it takes practice,' Nikolai Strobotsky shouted after him. Levine went to the steps, took a run from above as best he could, and dashed down, preserving his balance in this unwanted movement with his hands. On the last step he stumbled, but barely touching the ice with his hand, with a violent effort recovered himself, and skated off, laughing. How splendid, how nice he is!' Kitty was thinking at that moment, as she came out of the pavilion with Mademoiselle Lyon, and looked toward him with a smile of quiet affection, as though he were a favorite brother. And can it be my fault? Can I have done anything wrong? They talk of flirtation. I know it's not he that I love, but still I'm happy with him, and he's so jolly. Only, why did he say that?' she mused. Catching sight of Kitty going away, and her mother meeting her at the steps, Levine, flushed from his rapid exercise, stood still and pondered a minute. He took off his skates, and overtook the mother and daughter at the entrance of the gardens. "'Delighted to see you,' said Princess Sterbetskaya. "'On Thursdays we are at home, as always.' "'To Dave, then?' "'We shall be pleased to see you,' the Princess said stiffly. The stiffness hurt Kitty, and she could not resist the desire to smooth over her mother's coldness. She turned her head, and with a smile said, "'Good-bye till this evening.'" At that moment, Stepan Arkadyevich, his hat cocked on one side, with beaming face and eyes strode into the garden like a conquering hero. But as he approached his mother-in-law, he responded in a mournful and crestfallen tone to her enquiries about Dolly's health. After a little subdued and dejected conversation with his mother-in-law, he threw out his chest again, and put his arm in Levine's. "'Well, shall we set off?' he asked.  "'Yes, come along,' answered Levine in ecstasy, hearing unceasingly the sound of that voice saying, "'Good-bye till this evening,' and seeing the smile with which it was said. "'To the England or the Hermitage?' "'I don't mind which. "'All right, then to the England,' said Stepan Arkadyevich, selecting the restaurant because he owed more there than at the Hermitage, and consequently considered it mean to avoid it. "'Have you got a sledge? That's first rate for I sent my carriage home.'" The friends hardly spoke all the way. Levine was wondering what that change in Kitty's expression had meant, and alternately assuring himself that there was hope and falling into despair, seeing clearly that his hopes were insane, and yet all the while he felt himself quite another man, utterly unlike what he had been before her smile, and those words, "'Good-bye till this evening.'" Stepan Arkadyevich was absorbed during the drive in composing the menu of the dinner. "'You like Turbot, don't you?' he said to Levine as they were arising. "'Huh?' responded Levine. "'Turbot? Yes, I'm awfully fond of Turbot.'" End of Chapter 9. This recording is in the public domain. Book 1 Chapter 10 of Anna Karenina. Read for LibriVox.org by Kirsten Ferreri. When Levine went into the restaurant with Oblonsky he could not help noticing a certain peculiarity of expression, as it were, a restrained radiance about the face and whole figure of Stepan Arkadyevich. Oblonsky took off his overcoat, and with his hat over one ear walked into the dining-room, giving direction to the totter-waiters who were clustered about him in evening coats, bearing napkins. Bowing right and left to the people he met, and here as everywhere joyously greeting acquaintances, he went up to the side-board for a preliminary appetizer of fish and vodka, and said to the painted Frenchwoman decked in ribbons, lace, and ringlets behind the counter, something so amusing that even that Frenchwoman was moved to genuine laughter. Waiting for his part refrained from taking any vodka simply because he felt such a loathing of that Frenchwoman, all made up it seemed of false hair, poudrilles, and vinaigre de toilette. He made haste to move away from her, as from a dirty place. His whole soul was filled with memories of Kitty, and there was a smile of triumph and happiness shining in his eyes. This way, your Excellency, please. Your Excellency won't be disturbed here, said a particularly pertinacious, white-headed old tater, with immense hips and coattails gaping widely behind. Walk in, your Excellency, he said to Levine, by way of showing his respect to Stepanarkadievitch, being attentive to his guest as well. Instantly flinging a fresh cloth over the round table under the bronze chandelier, though it already had a tablecloth on it, he pushed up velvet chairs, and came to a standstill before Stepanarkadievitch with a napkin and a bill of fare in his hands, awaiting his commands. If you prefer your Excellency, a private room will be free directly. Prince Galisten with a lady. Fresh oysters have come in. Ah, oysters! Stepanarkadievitch became thoughtful.  Are the oysters good? Mind now. They're Flensburg, your Excellency, we've no ostent. Flensburg will do, but are they fresh? Only arrived yesterday. Well, then, how if we were to begin with oysters, and so changed the whole programme, eh? It's all the same to me. I should like cabbage soup and porridge better than anything, but of course there's nothing like that here. Porridge alerous your honour would like, said the tater, bending down to Levine like a nurse speaking to a child. No, joking apart, whatever you choose is sure to be good. I've been skating, and I'm hungry. And don't imagine, he added, detecting a look of dissatisfaction on a Blonsky's face, that I shan't appreciate your choice. I'm fond of good things. I should hope so. After all, it's one of the pleasures of life, said Stepan Arkadyevich. Well then, my friend, you give us two, or better say, three dozen oysters, clear soup with vegetables. Printanieri prompted the tater. But Stepan Arkadyevich apparently did not care to allow him the satisfaction of giving the French names of the dishes. With vegetables in it, you know. Then turbot with thick sauce, then roast beef, and mind its good. Yes, and capons, perhaps, and then sweets. The tater, recollecting that it was Stepan Arkadyevich's way not to call the dishes by the names in the French Bill of Fair, did not repeat them after him, but could not resist rehearsing the whole menu to himself according to the bill. Sous printanieri, turbot, sauce, peintre-mâchers, boulard et lastragon, macédoins de fruits, etc. And then instantly, as though worked by springs laying down one bound Bill of Fair, he took up another, the list of wines, and submitted it to Stepan Arkadyevich. What shall we drink? What you like, only not too much. Champagne, said Levine. What to start with? You're right, though, I daresay. Do you like the white seal? Cachette blanc, prompted the tater. Very well, then. Give us that brand with the oysters, and then we'll see. Yes, sir. And what table wine? You can give us Nuit. Oh, no, better the classic chablis. Yes, sir.  Oh, yes, parmesan. Or would you like another? No, it's all the same to me, said Levine, unable to suppress a smile. And the tater ran off with flying coattails, and in five minutes darted in with a dish of opened oysters on mother of pearl shells, and a bottle between his fingers. Stepan Arkadyevich crushed the starchy napkin, tucked it into his west skirt, and, settling his arms comfortably, started on the oysters. Not bad, he said, stripping the oysters from the pearly shell with a silver fork, and swallowing them one after another. Not bad, he repeated, turning his dewy brilliant eyes from Levine to the tater. Levine ate the oysters, indeed, though white bread and cheese would have pleased him better. But he was admiring a Blonski. Even the tater, uncorking the bottle and pouring the sparkling wine into the delicate glasses, glanced at Stepan Arkadyevich, and settled his white cravat with a perceptible smile of satisfaction. You don't care much for oysters, do you? said Stepan Arkadyevich, emptying his wine-glass. Or you're worried about something, eh? He wanted Levine to be in good spirits. But it was not that Levine was not in good spirits. He was ill at ease. With what he had in his soul he felt sore and uncomfortable in the restaurant, in the midst of private rooms where men were dining with ladies, in all this fuss and bustle. The surroundings of bronzes, looking glasses, gas and waders, all of it was offensive to him. He was afraid of sullying what his soul was brimful of. I? Yes, I am. But besides, all this bothers me, he said.  Yes, I saw how much interest did you wear in poor Grinovich's nails, said Stepan Arkadyevich, laughing. It's too much for me, responded Levine. Do try now and put yourself in my place. Take the point of view of a country person. We in the country try to bring our hands into such a state as we'll be most convenient for working with. So we cut our nails. Sometimes we turn up our sleeves. And here people purposely let their nails grow as long as they will, and link on small saucers by way of studs so that they can do nothing with their hands. Stepan Arkadyevich smiled gaily. Oh, yes, that's just a sign that he has no need to do course work. His work is with the mind. Maybe, but it's still queer to me. Just as at this moment it seems queer to me that we country folks try to get our meals over as soon as we can, so as to be ready for our work, while here are we trying to drag out our meal as long as possible, and with that object eating oysters. Why, of course, subjected Stepan Arkadyevich, but that's just the aim of civilization, to make everything a source of enjoyment. Well, if that's its aim I'd rather be a savage. And so you are a savage. All you Levines are savages. Levine sighed. He remembered his brother Nikolai and fell to shame and soar, and he scowled. But Oblonsky began speaking of a subject which at once drew his attention. Oh, I say, are you going to-night to our people? The Shtirbatsky's, I mean," he said, his eyes sparkling significantly as he pushed away the empty rough shells and drew the cheese toward him. Yes, certainly I shall go," replied Levine, though I fancied the princess was not very warm in her invitation. What nonsense! That's her matter. Come, boy, the soup! That's her matter. Ground Dom, said Stepan Arkadyevich. I'm coming, too, but I have to go to the Countess Bonina's rehearsal.  How do you explain the sudden way in which you vanished from Moscow? The Shtirbatsky's were continually asking about you, as though I ought to know. The only thing I know is that you always do what no one else does. Yes, said Levine, slowly and with emotion, you're right. I am a savage. Only my savageness is not in having gone away but in coming now. Now I've come.  Broken Stepan Arkadyevich, looking into Levine's eyes. Why? I know a gallant steed by tokens sure, and by his eyes I know a youth in love to claim Stepan Arkadyevich. Everything is before you. Why is it over for you already? No, not over exactly, but the future is yours, and the present is mine, and the present—well, it's not all that it might be. How so? Oh, things go wrong, but I don't want to talk of myself, and besides I can't explain it all, said Stepan Arkadyevich. Well, why have you come to Moscow, then? Hi, take away," he called to the Tatar. "'You guessed,' responded Levine, his eyes like deep wells of light fixed on Stepan Arkadyevich. I guess, but I can't be the first to talk about it. You can see by that whether I guess right or wrong,' said Stepan Arkadyevich, gazing at Levine with a subtle smile. "'Well, and what have you to say to me?' said Levine, in a quivering voice, feeling that all the muscles of his face were quivering, too. How do you look at the question?'  "'I,' said Stepan Arkadyevich, there's nothing I desire so much as that. Nothing. It would be the best thing that could be.' "'But you're not making a mistake. You know what we're speaking of,' said Levine, piercing him with his eyes. You think it's possible?' "'I think it's possible. Why not possible?' "'No, do you really think it's possible? Tell me all you think. Oh, but if—if refusal's in store for me—indeed, I feel sure.' "'Why should you think that?' said Stepan Arkadyevich, smiling at his excitement. "'It seems so to me sometimes. That will be awful for me. And for her, too—' "'Oh, well, anyway, there's nothing awful in it for a girl. Every girl's proud of an offer.' "'Yes, every girl, but not she.' Stepan Arkadyevich smiled. He knew so well that feeling of Levine's that for him all the girls were divided into two classes—one class, all the girls in the world except her—and those girls, with all sorts of human weaknesses, and very ordinary girls—the other class, she alone, having no weaknesses of any sort, and higher than all humanity.' "'Stay, take some sauce,' he said, holding back Levine's hand as it pushed away the sauce. Levine obediently helped himself to sauce, but would not let Stepan Arkadyevich go on with his dinner. "'No, stop a minute. Stop a minute,' he said. "'You must understand. It's a question of life and death for me. I've never spoken to any one of this. There's no one I could stop it to, except you. You know we're utterly unlike each other—different tastes and views and everything—but I know you're fond of me, and you understand me, and that's why I like you awfully. But for God's sake, be quite straightforward with me.' "'I'll tell you what I think,' said Stepan Arkadyevich, smiling. "'But I'll say more. My wife is a wonderful woman,' Stepan Arkadyevich sighed, remembering his position with his wife, and after a moment's silence resumed, she has a gift of foreseeing things. She sees right through people, but that's not all. She knows what will come to pass, especially in the way of marriages. She foretold, for instance, that Princess Shah of Skia would marry Brentel. No one would believe it, but it came to pass, and she's on your side. How do you mean?" "'It's not only that she likes you. She says that Kitty is certain to be your wife.'" At these words Lavine's face suddenly lighted up with a smile, a smile not far from tears of emotion. "'She says that,' cried Lavine. "'I always said she was exquisite, your wife. There, that's enough. Enough said about it,' he said, getting up from his seat. "'All right, but do sit down.'" But Lavine could not sit down. He walked with his firm tread twice up and down the little cage of a room, blinked his eyelids that his tears might not fall, and only then sat down to the table. "'You must understand,' said he, "'it's not love. I've been in love, but it's not that. It's not my feeling, but a sort of force outside me has taken possession of me. I went away, you see, because I made up my mind that it never could be. You understand, as a happiness that does not come on earth. But I've struggled with myself. I see there's no living without it. And it must be settled.'" "'What did you go away for?' "'Stop a minute. The thoughts that come crowding in on one. The questions one must ask oneself. Listen, you can't imagine what you've done for me by what you've said. I'm so happy that I've become positively hateful. I've forgotten everything. I heard today that my brother, Nikolai, you know, he's here. I had even forgotten him. It seems to me that he's happy too. It's a sort of madness. But one thing's awful.  It's awful that we, old, with a past, not of love, but of sins, are brought all at once so near to a creature so pure and innocent. It's loathsome, and that's why one can't help feeling oneself unworthy." "'Oh, well, you've not many sins on your conscience.' "'Alas, all the same,' said Libin, when with loathing, over my life, I shudder and curse, and bitterly regret it. Yes. What would you have? The world is made so,' said Stepanarkadjevich. "'The only comfort is like that prayer which I always liked. Forgive me not according to my unworthiness, but according to thy loving-kindness. That's the only way she can forgive me.'" CHAPTER X. CHAPTER XI. There's one other thing I ought to tell you. Do you know Vronsky? Stepanarkadjevich asked Levine. "'No, I don't. Why do you ask?' "'Give us another bottle.'" Stepanarkadjevich directed the Tatar, who was filling up their glasses and fidgeting round them just when he was not wanted. "'Why, you ought to know Vronsky is that he's one of your rivals.' "'Who is Vronsky?' said Levine, and his face was suddenly transformed from the look of childlike ecstasy which Oblonsky had just been admiring, to an angry and unpleasant expression.' Vronsky is one of the sons of Count Kirolevanovich Vronsky, and one of the finest specimens of the gilded youth of Petersburg. I made his acquaintance in Tver when I was there on official business, and he came there for the levy of recruits—fearfully rich, handsome, great connections, and aid-to-comp, and with all that a very nice, good-natured fellow. But he's more than simply a good-natured fellow, as I've found out here. He's a cultivated man, too, and very intelligent. He's a man who will make his mark." Levine scowled, and was dumb. "'Well, he turned up here soon after you'd gone, and as far as I can see he's over ahead in ears in love with Kitty.' "'And you know that her mother?' "'Excuse me, but I know nothing,' said Levine, frowning gloomily, and immediately he recollected his brother Nikolai, and how hateful he was to have been able to forget him. "'Wait a bit, wait a bit,' says Stepan Arkadievich, smiling and touching his hand. "'I've told you what I know, and I can repeat, that in this delicate and tender matter, as far as one can conjecture, I believe the chances are in your favour.' Levine dropped back in his chair. His face was pale. "'But I would advise you to settle the thing as soon as it may be,' pursued Oblonsky, filling up his glass. "'No thanks, I can't drink any more,' said Levine, pushing away his glass. "'I shall be drunk.' "'Come, tell me, how are you getting on?' he went on, obviously anxious to change the conversation. One word more. In any case, I advise you to settle the question soon. "'Tonight I don't advise you to speak,' said Stepan Arkadievich. "'Go around to-morrow morning, make an offer and do form, and God bless you.' "'Oh, do you still think of coming to me for some shooting? From next spring, do,' said Levine. Now his whole soul was full of remorse that he had begun this conversation with Stepan Arkadievich. A feeling such as his was profaned by talk of the rivalry of some Petersburg officer, of the suppositions and the councils of Stepan Arkadievich. Stepan Arkadievich smiled. He knew what was passing in Levine's soul. "'I'll come some day,' he said. "'But women, my boy, they're the pivot everything turns upon. Things are in a bad way with me. Very bad, and it's all through women.  Suppose you're married. You love your wife, but you're fascinated by another woman.' "'Excuse me, but I'm absolutely unable to comprehend how. Just as I can't comprehend how I could now after my dinner go straight to a baker's shop and steal a roll.'" Stepan Arkadievich's eyes sparkled more than usual. "'Why not? A roll will sometimes smell so good one can't resist it. Himlisch ist's, wenn ich bezwungen, meine Irdischbegier. Aber doch, wenn's nicht gelungen, hab ich auch recht hübsch pläsiere.' As he said this, Stepan Arkadievich smiled subtly. Levine, too, could not help smiling. "'Yes, but joking apart,' resumed Stepan Arkadievich, you must understand that the woman is a sweet, gentle-loving creature, poor and lonely, and has sacrificed everything. Now, when the thing's done, don't you see, can one possibly cast her off, even supposing one parts from her, so as not to break up one's family life? Still, can one help feeling for her, setting her on her feet, softening her lot? Well, you must excuse me there. You know to me all women are divided into two classes. At least know—true or to say—there are women and there are—I've never seen exquisite fallen beings, and I never shall see them. But such creatures as that painted French woman at the counter with ringlets are vermin to my mind, and all fallen women are the same. But the Magdalen—oh, drop that, Christ would never have said those words if he had known how they would be abused. Of all the gospel, those words are the only ones remembered. However, I'm not saying so much what I think is what I feel. I have a loathing for fallen women. You're afraid of spiders, and I have those vermin. Most likely you've not made a study of spiders and don't know their character, and so it is with me." "'It's very well for you to talk like that. It's very much like that gentleman in Dickens who used to fling all difficult questions over his right shoulder. But to deny the facts is no answer. What's to be done? You tell me that. What's to be done?  Before you have time to look around you feel that you can't love your wife with love, however much you may esteem her, and then all at once love turns up, and you're done for—done for!' Stepan Arkadyevich said with despair. Living half-smiled. "'Yes, you're done for,' resumed Oblunski. "'But what's to be done?' "'Don't steal rolls.'" Stepan Arkadyevich laughed outright. "'Oh, moralist! But you must understand, there are two women. One insists only on her rights, and those rights are your love, which you can't give her. And the other sacrifices everything for you, and asks for nothing. What are you to do? How are you to act? There's a fearful tragedy in it. If you care for my profession of faith as regards that, I'll tell you that I don't believe there was any tragedy about it. And this is why. To my mind, love—both sorts of love, which you remember Plato defines in his banquet, served as the test of men. Some men only understand one sort, and some only the other. And those who know only the non-Platonic love have no need to talk of tragedy. In such love there can be no sort of tragedy. I'm much obliged for the gratification, my humble respects. That's the tragedy. And in Platonic love there can be no tragedy, because in that love all is clear and pure, because at that instant Levine recollected his own sins, and the inner conflict he had lived through. And he added, unexpectedly—but perhaps you're right, very likely. I don't know. I don't know. It's this, don't you see, said Stepan Arkadyevich. You're very much all of a piece. That's your strong point, and you're failing. You have a character that's all of a piece, and you want the whole of life to be of a piece, too. But that's not how it is. You despise public official work because you want the reality to be invariably corresponding all the while with the aim. And that's not how it is. You want a man's work, too, always to have a defined aim and love and family life always to be undivided. And that's not how it is. All the variety, all the charm, all the beauty of life is made up of light and shadow. Levine sighed and made no reply. He was thinking of his own affairs, and did not hear of Blonsky. And suddenly both of them felt that, though they were friends, though they had been dining and drinking together, which should have drawn them closer, yet each was thinking only of his own affairs, and they had nothing to do with one another. Blonsky had more than once experienced this extreme sense of aloofness instead of intimacy coming on after dinner, and he knew what to do in such cases. Bill he called, and he went into the next room where he promptly came across an age-comp of his acquaintance and dropped into conversation with him about an actress and her protector. And at once in the conversation with the age-comp, a Blonsky had a sense of relaxation and relief after the conversation with Levine, which always put him to too great a mental and spiritual strain. When the Tatar appeared with a bill for twenty-six rubles and odd co-pecks, besides a tip for himself, Levine, who would another time have been horrified like any one from the country at his share of fourteen rubles, did not notice it, paid, and set off homeward to dress up and go to the Shtirbatskis, there to decide his fate. CHAPTER XII of Anna Karenina, read for LibriVox.org by Kirsten Ferrari. The young princess, Kitty Shtirbatskaya, was eighteen. It was the first winter that she had been out in the world. Her success in society had been greater than that of either her elder sisters, and greater even than her mother had anticipated. To say nothing of the young men who danced at the Moscow balls being almost all in love with Kitty, two serious suitors had already this first winter made their appearance, Levine, and immediately after his departure, Count Fronsky. Levine's appearance at the beginning of the winter, his frequent visits, and evident love for Kitty, had led to the first serious conversations between Kitty's parents as to her future and to disputes between them. The prince was on Levine's side. He said he wished for nothing better for Kitty. The princess, for her part, going round the question in the manner peculiar to women, maintained that Kitty was too young, that Levine had done nothing to prove that he had serious intentions, that Kitty felt no great attraction to him and other side issues, but she did not state the principal point which was that she looked for a better match for her daughter, and that Levine was not to her liking, and she did not understand him. When Levine had abruptly departed, the princess was delighted, and said to her husband triumphantly, You see, I was right. When Fronsky appeared on the scene she was still more delighted, confirmed in her opinion that Kitty was to make not simply a good, but a brilliant match. In the mother's eyes there could be no comparison between Fronsky and Levine. She disliked in Levine his strange and uncompromising opinions, and his shyness in society, found it as she supposed on his pride in his queer sort of life, as she considered it, absorbed in cattle and peasants. She did not very much like it that he, who was in love with her daughter, had kept coming to the house for six weeks as though he were waiting for something, inspecting, as though he were afraid he might be doing them too great an honour by making an offer, and did not realize that a man who continually visits at a house where there is a young unmarried girl is bound to make his intentions clear. And suddenly, without doing so, he disappeared. It's as well he's not attractive enough for Kitty to have fallen in love with him, thought the mother. Fronsky satisfied all the mother's desires, very wealthy, clever, of aristocratic family, on the high road to a brilliant career in the army and at court, and a fascinating man, nothing better could be wished for. Fronsky openly flirted with Kitty at balls, danced with her, and came continually to the house. Consequently, there could be no doubt of the seriousness of his intentions. But in spite of that, the mother had spent the whole of that winter in a state of terrible anxiety and agitation. Princess Sherbet Skye had herself been married thirty years ago, her aunt arranging the match. Her husband, about whom everything was well known beforehand, had come, looked at his future bride, and been looked at. The matchmaking aunt had ascertained and communicated their mutual impression. That impression had been favourable. Afterwards, on a day fixed beforehand, the expected offer was made to her parents and accepted. All had passed very simply and easily. So it seemed at least to the princess. But over her own daughters she had felt how far from simple and easy as the business, apparently so commonplace of marrying off one's daughters. The panics that had been lived through, the thoughts that had been brooded over, the money that had been wasted, and the disputes with her husband over marrying the two eldest girls, Daria and Natalia. Now, since the youngest had come out, she was going through the same terrors, the same doubts, and still more violent quarrels with her husband than she had over the elder girls. The old prince, like all fathers indeed, was exceedingly punctilious on the score of the honour and reputation of his daughters, especially over Kitty, who was his favourite. At every turn he had scenes with the princess for compromising her daughter. The princess had grown accustomed to this already with her other daughters, but now she felt that there was more ground for the princess' touchiness. She saw that of late years much was changed in the manners of society, that a mother's duties had become still more difficult. She saw that girls of Kitty's age formed some sort of clubs, went to some sort of lectures mixed freely in men's society, drove about the streets alone, many of them did not curtsy. And what was the most important thing, all the girls were firmly convinced that to choose their husbands was their own affair, and not their parents. Marriages aren't made nowadays as they used to be, was thought and said by all these young girls, and even by their elders. But how marriages were made now the princess could not learn from anyone. The French fashion of the parents arranging their children's future was not accepted. It was condemned. The English fashion of the complete independence of girls was also not accepted, and not possible in Russian society. The Russian fashion of matchmaking by the offices of intermediate persons was for some reason considered unseemly. It was ridiculed by everyone and by the princess herself. But how girls were to be married, and how parents were to marry them no one knew. Everyone with whom the princess had chance to discuss the matter said the same thing.  It's the young people have to marry and not their parents, and so we ought to leave the young people to arrange it as they choose. It was very easy for anyone to say that who had no daughters. But the princess realized that in the process of getting to know each other her daughter might fall in love, and fall in love with someone who did not care to marry her, or who was quite unfit to be her husband. And however much it was instilled into the princess that in our times young people ought to arrange their lives for themselves, she was unable to believe it, just as she would have been unable to believe that at any time whatever the most suitable playthings for children five years old ought to be loaded pistols. And so the princess was more uneasy over Kitty than she had been over her elder sisters. Now she was afraid that Fransky might confine himself simply to flirting with her daughter. She saw that her daughter was in love with him, but tried to comfort herself with the thought that he was an honorable man, and would not do this. But at the same time she knew how easy it is with the freedom of manners today to turn a girl's head, and how lightly men generally regard such a crime. The week before Kitty had told her mother of a conversation she had with Fransky during a Mazurka. This conversation had partly reassured the princess, but perfectly at ease she could not be. Fransky had told Kitty that both he and his brother were so used to obeying their mother that they never made up their minds to any important undertaking without consulting her. And just now I am impatiently awaiting my mother's arrival from Petersburg as peculiarly fortunate he told her. Kitty had repeated this without attaching any significance to the words, but her mother saw them in a different light. She knew that the old lady was expected from day to day that she would be pleased at her son's choice, and she felt it strange that he should not make his offer through fear of vexing his mother. However, she was so anxious for the merit itself, and still more for relief from her fears that she believed it was so. Bitter as it was for the princess to see the unhappiness of her eldest daughter, Dali, on the point of leaving her husband, her anxiety over the decision of her youngest daughter's fate engrossed all her feelings. Today, with Levine's reappearance, a fresh source of anxiety arose. She was afraid that her daughter, who had at one time as she fancied a feeling for Levine, might, from extreme sense of honour, refuse Fransky, and that Levine's arrival might generally complicate and delay the affair so near to being concluded. Why, has he been here long? The princess asked about Levine as they returned home. He came to-day, Mama. "'There's one thing I want to say,' began the princess, and from her serious and alert face, Kitty guessed what it would be. Mama,' she said, flushing hotly and quickly turning to her, "'Please, please, don't say anything about that. I know. I know all about it.' She wished what her mother wished for. But the motives of her mother's wishes wounded her. I only want to say that to raise hopes, Mama, darling, for goodness' sake, don't talk about it. It's so horrible to talk about it.' "'I won't,' said her mother, seeing the tears in her daughter's eyes. But one thing, my love, you promised me you would have no secrets from me. You won't?' "'Never, Mama, none,' answered Kitty, flushing a little, and looking her mother straight in the face. But there's no use in my telling you anything, and I—I—if I wanted to, I don't know what to say, or how. I don't know.' "'No, she could not tell an untruth with those eyes,' thought the mother, smiling at her agitation and happiness. The Princess smiled that what was taking place just now in her soul seemed to the poor child so immense and so important. CHAPTER XIII of Anna Karenina read for LibriVox.org by Kirsten Ferreri. After dinner, and till the beginning of the evening, Kitty was feeling a sensation akin to the sensation of a young man before battle. Her heart throbbed violently, and her thoughts would not rest on anything. She felt that this evening, when they would both meet for the first time would be a turning point in her life, and she was continually picturing them to herself, at one moment each separately, and then both together. When she mused on the past she dwelt with pleasure, with tenderness on the memories of her relations with Levine. The memories of childhood and of Levine's friendship with her dead brother gave a special poetic charm to her relations with him. His love for her, of which she felt certain, was flattering and delightful to her, and it was pleasant for her to think of Levine. In her memories of Fransky there always entered a certain element of awkwardness, though he was in the highest degree well bred and at ease, as though there were some false note, not in Fransky he was very simple and nice, but in herself, while with Levine she felt perfectly simple and clear. But on the other hand, directly she thought of the future with Fransky there arose before her a perspective of brilliant happiness, with Levine the future seemed misty. When she went upstairs to dress and looked into the looking-glass she noticed with joy that it was one of her good days, and that she was in complete possession of all her forces. She needed this so for what lay before her. She was conscious of external composure and free grace in her movements. At half-past seven she had only just gone down into the drawing-room when the footman had announced Constantine Dmitrievich Levine. The princess was still in her room, and the prince had not come in. So it is to be, thought Kitty, and all the blood seemed to rush to her heart. She was horrified at her paleness as she glanced into the looking-glass. At that moment she knew beyond doubt that he had come early on purpose to find her alone and to make her an offer. And only then, for the first time, the whole thing presented itself in a new different aspect. Only then she realized that the question did not affect her only, with whom she would be happy and whom she loved, but that she would, at that moment, have to wound a man she liked, and to wound him cruelly. What for? Because he, dear fellow, loved her, was in love with her. But there was no help for it, so it must be, so it would have to be. My God! Shall I myself really have to say it to him, she thought? Can I tell him I don't love him? That will be a lie. What am I to say to him, that I love someone else? No, that's impossible. I'm going away. I'm going away. He had reached the door when she heard his step. No, it's not honest. What have I to be afraid of? I've done nothing wrong. What is to be will be. I'll tell the truth. And with him one can't be ill at ease. Here he is," she said to herself, seeing his powerful shy figure, with his shining eyes fixed on her. She looked straight into his face, as though imploring him to spare her and gave her hand. It's not time yet. I think I'm too early, he said, glancing round the empty drawing-room. When he saw that his expectations were realized, that there was nothing to prevent him from speaking, his face became gloomy. Oh, no! said Kitty, and sat down at the table. But this was just what I wanted, to find you alone, he began, not sitting down, and not looking at her so as not to lose courage. Mama will be down directly. She was very much tired, yesterday. She talked on, not knowing what her lips were uttering, and not taking her supplicating and caressing eyes off him. He glanced at her. She blushed, and ceased speaking. I told you I did not know whether I should be here long. That it depended on you. She dropped her head lower and lower, not knowing herself what answer she should make to what was coming. That it depended on you, he repeated. I meant to say—I meant to say I came for this—to be my wife, he brought out, not knowing what he was saying, but feeling that the most terrible thing was being said. He stopped short, and looked at her. She was breathing heavily, not looking at him. She was feeling ecstasy. Her soul was flooded with happiness. She had never anticipated that the utterance of love would produce such a powerful effect on her. But it lasted only an instant. She remembered Vronsky. She lifted her clear, truthful eyes, and seeing his desperate face, she answered hastily, That cannot be. Forgive me. A moment ago, and how close she had been to him, of what importance in her life, and how aloof and remote from him she had become now. It was bound to be so, he said, not looking at her. He bowed, and was meaning to retreat.