“Believe me, I appreciate it, and I hope you won’t regret it,” answered
Stepan Arkadyevitch, smiling.
And, putting on his coat as he went, he patted the footman on the head,
chuckled, and went out.
“At five o’clock, and not evening dress, please,” he shouted once more,
turning at the door.
Chapter 9
It was past five, and several guests had already arrived, before the host
himself got home. He went in together with Sergey Ivanovitch Koznishev
and Pestsov, who had reached the street door at the same moment. These
were the two leading representatives of the Moscow intellectuals, as
Oblonsky had called them. Both were men respected for their character and
their intelligence. They respected each other, but were in complete and
hopeless disagreement upon almost every subject, not because they
belonged to opposite parties, but precisely because they were of the same
party (their enemies refused to see any distinction between their views);
but, in that party, each had his own special shade of opinion. And since no
difference is less easily overcome than the difference of opinion about
semi-abstract questions, they never agreed in any opinion, and had long,
indeed, been accustomed to jeer without anger, each at the other’s
incorrigible aberrations.
They were just going in at the door, talking of the weather, when Stepan
Arkadyevitch overtook them. In the drawing-room there were already
sitting Prince Alexander Dmitrievitch Shtcherbatsky, young Shtcherbatsky,
Turovtsin, Kitty, and Karenin.
Stepan Arkadyevitch saw immediately that things were not going well in
the drawing-room without him. Darya Alexandrovna, in her best gray silk
gown, obviously worried about the children, who were to have their dinner
by themselves in the nursery, and by her husband’s absence, was not equal
to the task of making the party mix without him. All were sitting like so
many priests’ wives on a visit (so the old prince expressed it), obviously
wondering why they were there, and pumping up remarks simply to avoid
being silent. Turovtsin—good, simple man—felt unmistakably a fish out of
water, and the smile with which his thick lips greeted Stepan Arkadyevitch
said, as plainly as words: “Well, old boy, you have popped me down in a
learned set! A drinking party now, or the Château des Fleurs, would be
more in my line!” The old prince sat in silence, his bright little eyes
watching Karenin from one side, and Stepan Arkadyevitch saw that he had
already formed a phrase to sum up that politician of whom guests were
invited to partake as though he were a sturgeon. Kitty was looking at the
door, calling up all her energies to keep her from blushing at the entrance of
Konstantin Levin. Young Shtcherbatsky, who had not been introduced to
Karenin, was trying to look as though he were not in the least conscious of
it. Karenin himself had followed the Petersburg fashion for a dinner with
ladies and was wearing evening dress and a white tie. Stepan Arkadyevitch
saw by his face that he had come simply to keep his promise, and was
performing a disagreeable duty in being present at this gathering. He was
indeed the person chiefly responsible for the chill benumbing all the guests
before Stepan Arkadyevitch came in.
On entering the drawing-room Stepan Arkadyevitch apologized,
explaining that he had been detained by that prince, who was always the
scapegoat for all his absences and unpunctualities, and in one moment he
had made all the guests acquainted with each other, and, bringing together
Alexey Alexandrovitch and Sergey Koznishev, started them on a discussion
of the Russification of Poland, into which they immediately plunged with
Pestsov. Slapping Turovtsin on the shoulder, he whispered something comic
in his ear, and set him down by his wife and the old prince. Then he told
Kitty she was looking very pretty that evening, and presented Shtcherbatsky
to Karenin. In a moment he had so kneaded together the social dough that
the drawing-room became very lively, and there was a merry buzz of
voices. Konstantin Levin was the only person who had not arrived. But this
was so much the better, as going into the dining-room, Stepan Arkadyevitch
found to his horror that the port and sherry had been procured from Depré,
and not from Levy, and, directing that the coachman should be sent off as
speedily as possible to Levy’s, he was going back to the drawing-room.
In the dining-room he was met by Konstantin Levin.
“I’m not late?”
“You can never help being late!” said Stepan Arkadyevitch, taking his
arm.
“Have you a lot of people? Who’s here?” asked Levin, unable to help
blushing, as he knocked the snow off his cap with his glove.
“All our own set. Kitty’s here. Come along, I’ll introduce you to
Karenin.”
Stepan Arkadyevitch, for all his liberal views, was well aware that to
meet Karenin was sure to be felt a flattering distinction, and so treated his
best friends to this honor. But at that instant Konstantin Levin was not in a
condition to feel all the gratification of making such an acquaintance. He
had not seen Kitty since that memorable evening when he met Vronsky, not
counting, that is, the moment when he had had a glimpse of her on the
highroad. He had known at the bottom of his heart that he would see her
here today. But to keep his thoughts free, he had tried to persuade himself
that he did not know it. Now when he heard that she was here, he was
suddenly conscious of such delight, and at the same time of such dread, that
his breath failed him and he could not utter what he wanted to say.
“What is she like, what is she like? Like what she used to be, or like what
she was in the carriage? What if Darya Alexandrovna told the truth? Why
shouldn’t it be the truth?” he thought.
“Oh, please, introduce me to Karenin,” he brought out with an effort, and
with a desperately determined step he walked into the drawing-room and
beheld her.
She was not the same as she used to be, nor was she as she had been in
the carriage; she was quite different.
She was scared, shy, shame-faced, and still more charming from it. She
saw him the very instant he walked into the room. She had been expecting
him. She was delighted, and so confused at her own delight that there was a
moment, the moment when he went up to her sister and glanced again at
her, when she, and he, and Dolly, who saw it all, thought she would break
down and would begin to cry. She crimsoned, turned white, crimsoned
again, and grew faint, waiting with quivering lips for him to come to her.
He went up to her, bowed, and held out his hand without speaking. Except
for the slight quiver of her lips and the moisture in her eyes that made them
brighter, her smile was almost calm as she said:
“How long it is since we’ve seen each other!” and with desperate
determination she pressed his hand with her cold hand.
“You’ve not seen me, but I’ve seen you,” said Levin, with a radiant smile
of happiness. “I saw you when you were driving from the railway station to
Ergushovo.”
“When?” she asked, wondering.
“You were driving to Ergushovo,” said Levin, feeling as if he would sob
with the rapture that was flooding his heart. “And how dared I associate a
thought of anything not innocent with this touching creature? And, yes, I do
believe it’s true what Darya Alexandrovna told me,” he thought.
Stepan Arkadyevitch took him by the arm and led him away to Karenin.
“Let me introduce you.” He mentioned their names.
“Very glad to meet you again,” said Alexey Alexandrovitch coldly,
shaking hands with Levin.
“You are acquainted?” Stepan Arkadyevitch asked in surprise.
“We spent three hours together in the train,” said Levin smiling, “but got
out, just as in a masquerade, quite mystified—at least I was.”
“Nonsense! Come along, please,” said Stepan Arkadyevitch, pointing in
the direction of the dining-room.
The men went into the dining-room and went up to a table, laid with six
sorts of spirits and as many kinds of cheese, some with little silver spades
and some without, caviar, herrings, preserves of various kinds, and plates
with slices of French bread.
The men stood round the strong-smelling spirits and salt delicacies, and
the discussion of the Russification of Poland between Koznishev, Karenin,
and Pestsov died down in anticipation of dinner.
Sergey Ivanovitch was unequaled in his skill in winding up the most
heated and serious argument by some unexpected pinch of Attic salt that
changed the disposition of his opponent. He did this now.
Alexey Alexandrovitch had been maintaining that the Russification of
Poland could only be accomplished as a result of larger measures which
ought to be introduced by the Russian government.
Pestsov insisted that one country can only absorb another when it is the
more densely populated.
Koznishev admitted both points, but with limitations. As they were going
out of the drawing-room to conclude the argument, Koznishev said,
smiling:
“So, then, for the Russification of our foreign populations there is but one
method—to bring up as many children as one can. My brother and I are
terribly in fault, I see. You married men, especially you, Stepan
Arkadyevitch, are the real patriots: what number have you reached?” he
said, smiling genially at their host and holding out a tiny wine-glass to him.
Everyone laughed, and Stepan Arkadyevitch with particular good humor.
“Oh, yes, that’s the best method!” he said, munching cheese and filling
the wine-glass with a special sort of spirit. The conversation dropped at the
jest.
“This cheese is not bad. Shall I give you some?” said the master of the
house. “Why, have you been going in for gymnastics again?” he asked
Levin, pinching his muscle with his left hand. Levin smiled, bent his arm,
and under Stepan Arkadyevitch’s fingers the muscles swelled up like a
sound cheese, hard as a knob of iron, through the fine cloth of the coat.
“What biceps! A perfect Samson!”
“I imagine great strength is needed for hunting bears,” observed Alexey
Alexandrovitch, who had the mistiest notions about the chase. He cut off
and spread with cheese a wafer of bread fine as a spider-web.
Levin smiled.
“Not at all. Quite the contrary; a child can kill a bear,” he said, with a
slight bow moving aside for the ladies, who were approaching the table.
“You have killed a bear, I’ve been told!” said Kitty, trying assiduously to
catch with her fork a perverse mushroom that would slip away, and setting
the lace quivering over her white arm. “Are there bears on your place?” she
added, turning her charming little head to him and smiling.
There was apparently nothing extraordinary in what she said, but what
unutterable meaning there was for him in every sound, in every turn of her
lips, her eyes, her hand as she said it! There was entreaty for forgiveness,
and trust in him, and tenderness—soft, timid tenderness—and promise and
hope and love for him, which he could not but believe in and which choked
him with happiness.
“No, we’ve been hunting in the Tver province. It was coming back from
there that I met your beau-frère in the train, or your beau-frère’s brother-in-
law,” he said with a smile. “It was an amusing meeting.”
And he began telling with droll good-humor how, after not sleeping all
night, he had, wearing an old fur-lined, full-skirted coat, got into Alexey
Alexandrovitch’s compartment.
“The conductor, forgetting the proverb, would have chucked me out on
account of my attire; but thereupon I began expressing my feelings in
elevated language, and … you, too,” he said, addressing Karenin and
forgetting his name, “at first would have ejected me on the ground of the
old coat, but afterwards you took my part, for which I am extremely
grateful.”
“The rights of passengers generally to choose their seats are too ill-
defined,” said Alexey Alexandrovitch, rubbing the tips of his fingers on his
handkerchief.
“I saw you were in uncertainty about me,” said Levin, smiling good-
naturedly, “but I made haste to plunge into intellectual conversation to
smooth over the defects of my attire.” Sergey Ivanovitch, while he kept up a
conversation with their hostess, had one ear for his brother, and he glanced
askance at him. “What is the matter with him today? Why such a
conquering hero?” he thought. He did not know that Levin was feeling as
though he had grown wings. Levin knew she was listening to his words and
that she was glad to listen to him. And this was the only thing that interested
him. Not in that room only, but in the whole world, there existed for him
only himself, with enormously increased importance and dignity in his own
eyes, and she. He felt himself on a pinnacle that made him giddy, and far
away down below were all those nice excellent Karenins, Oblonskys, and
all the world.
Quite without attracting notice, without glancing at them, as though there
were no other places left, Stepan Arkadyevitch put Levin and Kitty side by
side.
“Oh, you may as well sit there,” he said to Levin.
The dinner was as choice as the china, in which Stepan Arkadyevitch was
a connoisseur. The soupe Marie-Louise was a splendid success; the tiny pies
eaten with it melted in the mouth and were irreproachable. The two footmen
and Matvey, in white cravats, did their duty with the dishes and wines
