she repeated with decision, thinking of Anna.
“Use your influence with her, make her write. I don’t like—I’m almost
unable to speak about this to her.”
“Very well, I will talk to her. But how is it she does not think of it
herself?” said Darya Alexandrovna, and for some reason she suddenly at
that point recalled Anna’s strange new habit of half-closing her eyes. And
she remembered that Anna drooped her eyelids just when the deeper
questions of life were touched upon. “Just as though she half-shut her eyes
to her own life, so as not to see everything,” thought Dolly. “Yes, indeed,
for my own sake and for hers I will talk to her,” Dolly said in reply to his
look of gratitude.
They got up and walked to the house.
Chapter 22
When Anna found Dolly at home before her, she looked intently in her
eyes, as though questioning her about the talk she had had with Vronsky,
but she made no inquiry in words.
“I believe it’s dinner time,” she said. “We’ve not seen each other at all
yet. I am reckoning on the evening. Now I want to go and dress. I expect
you do too; we all got splashed at the buildings.”
Dolly went to her room and she felt amused. To change her dress was
impossible, for she had already put on her best dress. But in order to signify
in some way her preparation for dinner, she asked the maid to brush her
dress, changed her cuffs and tie, and put some lace on her head.
“This is all I can do,” she said with a smile to Anna, who came in to her
in a third dress, again of extreme simplicity.
“Yes, we are too formal here,” she said, as it were apologizing for her
magnificence. “Alexey is delighted at your visit, as he rarely is at anything.
He has completely lost his heart to you,” she added. “You’re not tired?”
There was no time for talking about anything before dinner. Going into
the drawing-room they found Princess Varvara already there, and the
gentlemen of the party in black frock-coats. The architect wore a swallow-
tail coat. Vronsky presented the doctor and the steward to his guest. The
architect he had already introduced to her at the hospital.
A stout butler, resplendent with a smoothly shaven round chin and a
starched white cravat, announced that dinner was ready, and the ladies got
up. Vronsky asked Sviazhsky to take in Anna Arkadyevna, and himself
offered his arm to Dolly. Veslovsky was before Tushkevitch in offering his
arm to Princess Varvara, so that Tushkevitch with the steward and the
doctor walked in alone.
The dinner, the dining-room, the service, the waiting at table, the wine,
and the food, were not simply in keeping with the general tone of modern
luxury throughout all the house, but seemed even more sumptuous and
modern. Darya Alexandrovna watched this luxury which was novel to her,
and as a good housekeeper used to managing a household—although she
never dreamed of adapting anything she saw to her own household, as it
was all in a style of luxury far above her own manner of living—she could
not help scrutinizing every detail, and wondering how and by whom it was
all done. Vassenka Veslovsky, her husband, and even Sviazhsky, and many
other people she knew, would never have considered this question, and
would have readily believed what every well-bred host tries to make his
guests feel, that is, that all that is well-ordered in his house has cost him, the
host, no trouble whatever, but comes of itself. Darya Alexandrovna was
well aware that even porridge for the children’s breakfast does not come of
itself, and that therefore, where so complicated and magnificent a style of
luxury was maintained, someone must give earnest attention to its
organization. And from the glance with which Alexey Kirillovitch scanned
the table, from the way he nodded to the butler, and offered Darya
Alexandrovna her choice between cold soup and hot soup, she saw that it
was all organized and maintained by the care of the master of the house
himself. It was evident that it all rested no more upon Anna than upon
Veslovsky. She, Sviazhsky, the princess, and Veslovsky, were equally
guests, with light hearts enjoying what had been arranged for them.
Anna was the hostess only in conducting the conversation. The
conversation was a difficult one for the lady of the house at a small table
with persons present, like the steward and the architect, belonging to a
completely different world, struggling not to be overawed by an elegance to
which they were unaccustomed, and unable to sustain a large share in the
general conversation. But this difficult conversation Anna directed with her
usual tact and naturalness, and indeed she did so with actual enjoyment, as
Darya Alexandrovna observed. The conversation began about the row
Tushkevitch and Veslovsky had taken alone together in the boat, and
Tushkevitch began describing the last boat races in Petersburg at the Yacht
Club. But Anna, seizing the first pause, at once turned to the architect to
draw him out of his silence.
“Nikolay Ivanitch was struck,” she said, meaning Sviazhsky, “at the
progress the new building had made since he was here last; but I am there
every day, and every day I wonder at the rate at which it grows.”
“It’s first-rate working with his excellency,” said the architect with a
smile (he was respectful and composed, though with a sense of his own
dignity). “It’s a very different matter to have to do with the district
authorities. Where one would have to write out sheaves of papers, here I
call upon the count, and in three words we settle the business.”
“The American way of doing business,” said Sviazhsky, with a smile.
“Yes, there they build in a rational fashion….”
The conversation passed to the misuse of political power in the United
States, but Anna quickly brought it round to another topic, so as to draw the
steward into talk.
“Have you ever seen a reaping machine?” she said, addressing Darya
Alexandrovna. “We had just ridden over to look at one when we met. It’s
the first time I ever saw one.”
“How do they work?” asked Dolly.
“Exactly like little scissors. A plank and a lot of little scissors. Like this.”
Anna took a knife and fork in her beautiful white hands covered with
rings, and began showing how the machine worked. It was clear that she
saw nothing would be understood from her explanation; but aware that her
talk was pleasant and her hands beautiful she went on explaining.
“More like little penknives,” Veslovsky said playfully, never taking his
eyes off her.
Anna gave a just perceptible smile, but made no answer. “Isn’t it true,
Karl Fedoritch, that it’s just like little scissors?” she said to the steward.
“Oh, ja,” answered the German. “Es ist ein ganz einfaches Ding,” and he
began to explain the construction of the machine.
“It’s a pity it doesn’t bind too. I saw one at the Vienna exhibition, which
binds with a wire,” said Sviazhsky. “They would be more profitable in use.”
“Es kommt drauf an…. Der Preis vom Draht muss ausgerechnet
werden.” And the German, roused from his taciturnity, turned to Vronsky.
“Das lässt sich ausrechnen, Erlaucht.” The German was just feeling in the
pocket where were his pencil and the notebook he always wrote in, but
recollecting that he was at a dinner, and observing Vronsky’s chilly glance,
he checked himself. “Zu compliziert, macht zu viel Klopot,” he concluded.
“Wünscht man Dochots, so hat man auch Klopots,” said Vassenka
Veslovsky, mimicking the German. “J’adore l’allemand,” he addressed
Anna again with the same smile.
“Cessez,” she said with playful severity.
“We expected to find you in the fields, Vassily Semyonitch,” she said to
the doctor, a sickly-looking man; “have you been there?”
“I went there, but I had taken flight,” the doctor answered with gloomy
jocoseness.
“Then you’ve taken a good constitutional?”
“Splendid!”
“Well, and how was the old woman? I hope it’s not typhus?”
“Typhus it is not, but it’s taking a bad turn.”
“What a pity!” said Anna, and having thus paid the dues of civility to her
domestic circle, she turned to her own friends.
“It would be a hard task, though, to construct a machine from your
description, Anna Arkadyevna,” Sviazhsky said jestingly.
“Oh, no, why so?” said Anna with a smile that betrayed that she knew
there was something charming in her disquisitions upon the machine that
had been noticed by Sviazhsky. This new trait of girlish coquettishness
made an unpleasant impression on Dolly.
“But Anna Arkadyevna’s knowledge of architecture is marvelous,” said
Tushkevitch.
“To be sure, I heard Anna Arkadyevna talking yesterday about plinths
and damp-courses,” said Veslovsky. “Have I got it right?”
“There’s nothing marvelous about it, when one sees and hears so much of
it,” said Anna. “But, I dare say, you don’t even know what houses are made
of?”
Darya Alexandrovna saw that Anna disliked the tone of raillery that
existed between her and Veslovsky, but fell in with it against her will.
Vronsky acted in this matter quite differently from Levin. He obviously
attached no significance to Veslovsky’s chattering; on the contrary, he
encouraged his jests.
“Come now, tell us, Veslovsky, how are the stones held together?”
“By cement, of course.”
“Bravo! And what is cement?”
“Oh, some sort of paste … no, putty,” said Veslovsky, raising a general
laugh.
The company at dinner, with the exception of the doctor, the architect,
and the steward, who remained plunged in gloomy silence, kept up a
conversation that never paused, glancing off one subject, fastening on
another, and at times stinging one or the other to the quick. Once Darya
Alexandrovna felt wounded to the quick, and got so hot that she positively
flushed and wondered afterwards whether she had said anything extreme or
unpleasant. Sviazhsky began talking of Levin, describing his strange view
that machinery is simply pernicious in its effects on Russian agriculture.
“I have not the pleasure of knowing this M. Levin,” Vronsky said,
smiling, “but most likely he has never seen the machines he condemns; or if
he has seen and tried any, it must have been after a queer fashion, some
Russian imitation, not a machine from abroad. What sort of views can
anyone have on such a subject?”
“Turkish views, in general,” Veslovsky said, turning to Anna with a
smile.
“I can’t defend his opinions,” Darya Alexandrovna said, firing up; “but I
can say that he’s a highly cultivated man, and if he were here he would
know very well how to answer you, though I am not capable of doing so.”
“I like him extremely, and we are great friends,” Sviazhsky said, smiling
good-naturedly. “Mais pardon, il est un petit peu toqué; he maintains, for
instance, that district councils and arbitration boards are all of no use, and
he is unwilling to take part in anything.”
“It’s our Russian apathy,” said Vronsky, pouring water from an iced
decanter into a delicate glass on a high stem; “we’ve no sense of the duties
our privileges impose upon us, and so we refuse to recognize these duties.”
“I know no man more strict in the performance of his duties,” said Darya
Alexandrovna, irritated by Vronsky’s tone of superiority.
“For my part,” pursued Vronsky, who was evidently for some reason or
other keenly affected by this conversation, “such as I am, I am, on the
contrary, extremely grateful for the honor they have done me, thanks to
Nikolay Ivanitch” (he indicated Sviazhsky), “in electing me a justice of the
peace. I consider that for me the duty of being present at the session, of
judging some peasants’ quarrel about a horse, is as important as anything I
can do. And I shall regard it as an honor if they elect me for the district
council. It’s only in that way I can pay for the advantages I enjoy as a
landowner. Unluckily they don’t understand the weight that the big
landowners ought to have in the state.”
It was strange to Darya Alexandrovna to hear how serenely confident he
was of being right at his own table. She thought how Levin, who believed
the opposite, was just as positive in his opinions at his own table. But she
loved Levin, and so she was on his side.
“So we can reckon upon you, count, for the coming elections?” said
Sviazhsky. “But you must come a little beforehand, so as to be on the spot
by the eighth. If you would do me the honor to stop with me.”
“I rather agree with your beau-frère,” said Anna, “though not quite on the
same ground as he,” she added with a smile. “I’m afraid that we have too
many of these public duties in these latter days. Just as in old days there
were so many government functionaries that one had to call in a functionary
for every single thing, so now everyone’s doing some sort of public duty.
Alexey has been here now six months, and he’s a member, I do believe, of
five or six different public bodies. Du train que cela va, the whole time will
be wasted on it. And I’m afraid that with such a multiplicity of these bodies,
they’ll end in being a mere form. How many are you a member of, Nikolay
Ivanitch?” she turned to Sviazhsky—“over twenty, I fancy.”
Anna spoke lightly, but irritation could be discerned in her tone. Darya
Alexandrovna, watching Anna and Vronsky attentively, detected it instantly.
She noticed, too, that as she spoke Vronsky’s face had immediately taken a
serious and obstinate expression. Noticing this, and that Princess Varvara at
once made haste to change the conversation by talking of Petersburg
acquaintances, and remembering what Vronsky had without apparent
connection said in the garden of his work in the country, Dolly surmised
that this question of public activity was connected with some deep private
disagreement between Anna and Vronsky.
The dinner, the wine, the decoration of the table were all very good; but it
was all like what Darya Alexandrovna had seen at formal dinners and balls
which of late years had become quite unfamiliar to her; it all had the same
impersonal and constrained character, and so on an ordinary day and in a
little circle of friends it made a disagreeable impression on her.
After dinner they sat on the terrace, then they proceeded to play lawn
tennis. The players, divided into two parties, stood on opposite sides of a
tightly drawn net with gilt poles on the carefully leveled and rolled croquet-
ground. Darya Alexandrovna made an attempt to play, but it was a long
time before she could understand the game, and by the time she did
understand it, she was so tired that she sat down with Princess Varvara and
simply looked on at the players. Her partner, Tushkevitch, gave up playing
too, but the others kept the game up for a long time. Sviazhsky and Vronsky
both played very well and seriously. They kept a sharp lookout on the balls
served to them, and without haste or getting in each other’s way, they ran
adroitly up to them, waited for the rebound, and neatly and accurately
returned them over the net. Veslovsky played worse than the others. He was
too eager, but he kept the players lively with his high spirits. His laughter
and outcries never paused. Like the other men of the party, with the ladies’
permission, he took off his coat, and his solid, comely figure in his white
shirt-sleeves, with his red perspiring face and his impulsive movements,
made a picture that imprinted itself vividly on the memory.
When Darya Alexandrovna lay in bed that night, as soon as she closed
her eyes, she saw Vassenka Veslovsky flying about the croquet ground.
During the game Darya Alexandrovna was not enjoying herself. She did
not like the light tone of raillery that was kept up all the time between
Vassenka Veslovsky and Anna, and the unnaturalness altogether of grown-
up people, all alone without children, playing at a child’s game. But to
avoid breaking up the party and to get through the time somehow, after a
rest she joined the game again, and pretended to be enjoying it. All that day
it seemed to her as though she were acting in a theater with actors cleverer
