information from you?” he asked, moving towards the door, his eyes and
his varnished boots shining.
“In a week’s time. Your answer as to whether you will undertake to
conduct the case, and on what terms, you will be so good as to
communicate to me.”
“Very good.”
The lawyer bowed respectfully, let his client out of the door, and, left
alone, gave himself up to his sense of amusement. He felt so mirthful that,
contrary to his rules, he made a reduction in his terms to the haggling lady,
and gave up catching moths, finally deciding that next winter he must have
the furniture covered with velvet, like Sigonin’s.
Chapter 6
Alexey Alexandrovitch had gained a brilliant victory at the sitting of the
Commission of the 17th of August, but in the sequel this victory cut the
ground from under his feet. The new commission for the inquiry into the
condition of the native tribes in all its branches had been formed and
despatched to its destination with an unusual speed and energy inspired by
Alexey Alexandrovitch. Within three months a report was presented. The
condition of the native tribes was investigated in its political,
administrative, economic, ethnographic, material, and religious aspects. To
all these questions there were answers admirably stated, and answers
admitting no shade of doubt, since they were not a product of human
thought, always liable to error, but were all the product of official activity.
The answers were all based on official data furnished by governors and
heads of churches, and founded on the reports of district magistrates and
ecclesiastical superintendents, founded in their turn on the reports of
parochial overseers and parish priests; and so all of these answers were
unhesitating and certain. All such questions as, for instance, of the cause of
failure of crops, of the adherence of certain tribes to their ancient beliefs,
etc.—questions which, but for the convenient intervention of the official
machine, are not, and cannot be solved for ages—received full, unhesitating
solution. And this solution was in favor of Alexey Alexandrovitch’s
contention. But Stremov, who had felt stung to the quick at the last sitting,
had, on the reception of the commission’s report, resorted to tactics which
Alexey Alexandrovitch had not anticipated. Stremov, carrying with him
several members, went over to Alexey Alexandrovitch’s side, and not
contenting himself with warmly defending the measure proposed by
Karenin, proposed other more extreme measures in the same direction.
These measures, still further exaggerated in opposition to what was Alexey
Alexandrovitch’s fundamental idea, were passed by the commission, and
then the aim of Stremov’s tactics became apparent. Carried to an extreme,
the measures seemed at once to be so absurd that the highest authorities,
and public opinion, and intellectual ladies, and the newspapers, all at the
same time fell foul of them, expressing their indignation both with the
measures and their nominal father, Alexey Alexandrovitch. Stremov drew
back, affecting to have blindly followed Karenin, and to be astounded and
distressed at what had been done. This meant the defeat of Alexey
Alexandrovitch. But in spite of failing health, in spite of his domestic griefs,
he did not give in. There was a split in the commission. Some members,
with Stremov at their head, justified their mistake on the ground that they
had put faith in the commission of revision, instituted by Alexey
Alexandrovitch, and maintained that the report of the commission was
rubbish, and simply so much waste paper. Alexey Alexandrovitch, with a
following of those who saw the danger of so revolutionary an attitude to
official documents, persisted in upholding the statements obtained by the
revising commission. In consequence of this, in the higher spheres, and
even in society, all was chaos, and although everyone was interested, no one
could tell whether the native tribes really were becoming impoverished and
ruined, or whether they were in a flourishing condition. The position of
Alexey Alexandrovitch, owing to this, and partly owing to the contempt
lavished on him for his wife’s infidelity, became very precarious. And in
this position he took an important resolution. To the astonishment of the
commission, he announced that he should ask permission to go himself to
investigate the question on the spot. And having obtained permission,
Alexey Alexandrovitch prepared to set off to these remote provinces.
Alexey Alexandrovitch’s departure made a great sensation, the more so
as just before he started he officially returned the posting-fares allowed him
for twelve horses, to drive to his destination.
“I think it very noble,” Betsy said about this to the Princess Myakaya.
“Why take money for posting-horses when everyone knows that there are
railways everywhere now?”
But Princess Myakaya did not agree, and the Princess Tverskaya’s
opinion annoyed her indeed.
“It’s all very well for you to talk,” said she, “when you have I don’t know
how many millions; but I am very glad when my husband goes on a
revising tour in the summer. It’s very good for him and pleasant traveling
about, and it’s a settled arrangement for me to keep a carriage and
coachman on the money.”
On his way to the remote provinces Alexey Alexandrovitch stopped for
three days at Moscow.
The day after his arrival he was driving back from calling on the
governor-general. At the crossroads by Gazetoy Place, where there are
always crowds of carriages and sledges, Alexey Alexandrovitch suddenly
heard his name called out in such a loud and cheerful voice that he could
not help looking round. At the corner of the pavement, in a short, stylish
overcoat and a low-crowned fashionable hat, jauntily askew, with a smile
that showed a gleam of white teeth and red lips, stood Stepan Arkadyevitch,
radiant, young, and beaming. He called him vigorously and urgently, and
insisted on his stopping. He had one arm on the window of a carriage that
was stopping at the corner, and out of the window were thrust the heads of a
lady in a velvet hat, and two children. Stepan Arkadyevitch was smiling and
beckoning to his brother-in-law. The lady smiled a kindly smile too, and she
too waved her hand to Alexey Alexandrovitch. It was Dolly with her
children.
Alexey Alexandrovitch did not want to see anyone in Moscow, and least
of all his wife’s brother. He raised his hat and would have driven on, but
Stepan Arkadyevitch told his coachman to stop, and ran across the snow to
him.
“Well, what a shame not to have let us know! Been here long? I was at
Dussots’ yesterday and saw ‘Karenin’ on the visitors’ list, but it never
entered my head that it was you,” said Stepan Arkadyevitch, sticking his
head in at the window of the carriage, “or I should have looked you up. I
am glad to see you!” he said, knocking one foot against the other to shake
the snow off. “What a shame of you not to let us know!” he repeated.
“I had no time; I am very busy,” Alexey Alexandrovitch responded dryly.
“Come to my wife, she does so want to see you.”
Alexey Alexandrovitch unfolded the rug in which his frozen feet were
wrapped, and getting out of his carriage made his way over the snow to
Darya Alexandrovna.
“Why, Alexey Alexandrovitch, what are you cutting us like this for?” said
Dolly, smiling.
“I was very busy. Delighted to see you!” he said in a tone clearly
indicating that he was annoyed by it. “How are you?”
“Tell me, how is my darling Anna?”
Alexey Alexandrovitch mumbled something and would have gone on.
But Stepan Arkadyevitch stopped him.
“I tell you what we’ll do tomorrow. Dolly, ask him to dinner. We’ll ask
Koznishev and Pestsov, so as to entertain him with our Moscow
celebrities.”
“Yes, please, do come,” said Dolly; “we will expect you at five, or six
o’clock, if you like. How is my darling Anna? How long….”
“She is quite well,” Alexey Alexandrovitch mumbled, frowning.
“Delighted!” and he moved away towards his carriage.
“You will come?” Dolly called after him.
Alexey Alexandrovitch said something which Dolly could not catch in
the noise of the moving carriages.
“I shall come round tomorrow!” Stepan Arkadyevitch shouted to him.
Alexey Alexandrovitch got into his carriage, and buried himself in it so
as neither to see nor be seen.
“Queer fish!” said Stepan Arkadyevitch to his wife, and glancing at his
watch, he made a motion of his hand before his face, indicating a caress to
his wife and children, and walked jauntily along the pavement.
“Stiva! Stiva!” Dolly called, reddening.
He turned round.
“I must get coats, you know, for Grisha and Tanya. Give me the money.”
“Never mind; you tell them I’ll pay the bill!” and he vanished, nodding
genially to an acquaintance who drove by.
