 Part 1 Chapter 29 of Anna Karenina, read for LibriVox.org by Kirsten Ferreri. Come, it's all over and thank God was the first thought that came to Anna Akadyevna, when she had said goodbye for the last time to her brother, who had stood blocking the entrance to the carriage till the third bell rang. She sat down on her lounge beside Anushka, and looked about her in the twilight of the sleeping carriage. Thank God! Tomorrow I shall see Seryozha at Alexei Alexandrovich, and my life will go on in the old way, all nice and as usual. Still in the same anxious frame of mind as she had been all that day, Anna took pleasure in arranging herself for the journey with great care. With her little deft hands she opened and shut her little red bag, took out a cushion, laid it on her knees, and carefully wrapping up her feet, settled herself comfortably. An invalid lady had already laid down to sleep. Two other ladies began talking to Anna. And a stout elderly lady tucked up her feet, and made observations about the heating of the train. Anna answered a few words, but not foreseeing any entertainment from the conversation. She asked Anushka to get a lamp, hooked it on to the arm of her seat, and took from her bag a paper knife and an English novel. At first her reading made no progress. The fuss and bustle were disturbing, then when the train had started she could not help listening to the noises, then the snow beating on the left window and sticking to the pane, and the sight of the muffled guard passing by, covered with snow on one side, and the conversations about the terrible snowstorm raging outside distracted her attention. Further on it was continually the same, again and again, the same shaking and rattling, the same snow on the window, and the same rapid transitions from steam heat to cold and back again to heat, the same passing glimpses of the same figures in the twilight, and the same voices, and Anna began to read and to understand what she read. Anushka was already dozing, the red bag on her lap clutched by her broad hands and gloves, of which one was torn. Anna Arkadyevna read and understood, but it was distasteful to her to read—that is, to follow the reflection of other people's lives. She had too great a desire to live herself. If she read that the heroine of the novel was nursing a sick man, she longed to move with noiseless steps about the room of a sick man. If she read of a member of parliament making a speech, she longed to be delivering the speech. If she read of how Lady Mary had ridden after the hounds, and had provoked her sister-in-law and had surprised everyone by her boldness, she too wished to be doing the same. But there is no chance of doing anything, and twisting the smooth paper-knife in her little hands, she forced herself to read. The hero of the novel was already almost reaching his English happiness, a baronetcy and an estate, and Anna was feeling a desire to go with him to the estate, when she suddenly felt that he ought to be ashamed, and that she was ashamed of the same thing. But what had he to be ashamed of? What have I to be ashamed of? She asked herself, in injured surprise. She laid down the book and sank against the back of the chair, tightly gripping the paper-cutter in both hands. There was nothing. She went over all her Moscow recollections. All were good, pleasant. She remembered the ball, remembered Ronsky and his face of slavish adoration, remembered all her conduct with him. There was nothing shameful. But for all that, at the same point in her memories, the feeling of shame was intensified, as though some inner voice just at the point where she thought of Ronsky were saying to her, warm, very warm, hot. Well, what is it, she said to herself, resolutely, shifting her seat in the lounge? What does it mean? Am I afraid to look it straight in the face? Why, what is it? Can it be that between me and this officer boy there exist, or can exist, any other relations, and such, as are common with every acquaintance? She laughed contemptuously and took up her book again, but now she was definitely unable to follow what she read. She passed the paper-knife over the window-pane, then laid its smooth cool surface to her cheek, and almost laughed aloud at the feeling of delight that all at once without cause came over her. She felt as though her nerves were strings being strained together, tighter and tighter on some kind of screwing peg. She felt her eyes opening wider and wider, her fingers and toes twitching nervously, pressing within, oppressing her breathing, while all shapes and sounds seemed in the uncertain half-light to strike her with unaccustomed vividness. Moments of doubt were continually coming upon her, when she was uncertain whether the train were going forwards or backwards, or were standing still altogether, whether it were Anushka at her side or a stranger. What's that on the arm of the chair, a fur cloak or some beast? And what am I myself, myself or some other woman? She was afraid of giving way to this delirium, but something drew her towards it, and she could yield to it or resist it at will. She got up to rouse herself and slipped off her plaid in the cape of her warm dress. For a moment she regained her self-possession, and realized that the thin peasant who had come in wearing a long overcoat with buttons missing from it was the stove-heater, that he was looking at the thermometer, that it was the wind and snow bursting in after him at the door, but then everything grew blurred again. That peasant with the long waist seemed to be gnawing something on the wall. The old lady began stretching her legs the whole length of the carriage and filling it with a black cloud. Then there was a fearful shrieking and banging as though someone were being torn to pieces. Then a blinding dazzle of red fire before her eyes and a wall seemed to rise up and hide everything. Anna felt so she was sinking down. But it was not terrible, but delightful. The voice of a man muffled up and covered with snow shouted something in her ear. She got up and pulled herself together. She realized that they had reached a station, and that this was the guard. She asked Anushka to hand her the cape she had taken off at her shawl, put them on, and move towards the door. Do you wish to get out? Asked Anushka. Yes, I want a little air, it's very hot in here. And she opened the door. The driving snow and the wind rushed to meet her and struggled with her over the door. But she enjoyed the struggle. She opened the door and went out. The wind seemed as though lying in wait for her. With gleeful whistle it tried to snatch her up and bear her off, but she clung to the cold door-post, and holding her skirt, got down onto the platform and under the shelter of the carriages. The wind had been powerful on the steps, but on the platform, under the lee of the carriages, there was a lull. With enjoyment she drew deep breaths of the frozen snowy air, and standing near the carriage looked about the platform and the lighted station. The raging tempest rushed whistling between the wheels of carriages about the scaffolding and round the corner of the station. The carriages, posts, people, everything that was to be seen was covered with snow on one side, and was getting more and more thickly covered. For a moment there would come a lull in the storm, but then it would swoop down again with such onslaughts that it seemed impossible to stand against it. Meanwhile men ran to and fro talking merrily together, their steps crackling on the platform as they continually opened and closed the big doors. The bent shadow of a man glided by at her feet, and she heard sounds of a hammer upon iron. Hand over that telegram came an angry voice out of the stormy darkness on the other side. This way, number twenty-eight, several different voices shouted again, and muffled figures ran by covered with snow. Two gentlemen with lighted cigarettes passed by her. She drew one more deep breath of the fresh air, and had just put her hand out of her muff to take hold of the door-post and get back into the carriage when another man in a military overcoat, quite close beside her, stepped between her and the flickering light of the lamppost. She looked round, and the same instant recognized Brunsky's face. Putting his hand to the peak of his cap he bowed to her and asked, was there anything she wanted? Could he be of any service to her? She gazed rather a long while at him without answering, and in spite of the shadow in which he was standing, she saw or fancied she saw, both the expression of his face and his eyes. It was again that expression of reverential ecstasy which had so worked upon her the day before. More than once she had told herself during the past few days, and again only a few moments before, that Brunsky was for her only one of the hundreds of young men, for ever exactly the same, that are met everywhere, that she would never allow herself to bestow a thought upon him. But now, at the first instant of meeting him, she was seized by a feeling of joyful pride. She had no need to ask why he had come. She knew as certainly as if he had told her, that he was here to be where she was. I didn't know you were going. What are you coming for? she said, letting fall the hand with which she had grasped the door-post, an irrepressible delight and eagerness shown in her face. What am I coming for? he repeated, looking straight into her eyes. You know that I have come to be where you are, he said. I can't help it. At that moment, the wind, as it were, surmounting all obstacles, set the snow flying from the carriage-roofs, and clanked some sheet of iron it had torn off, while the horse whistle of the engine roared in front, plaintively and gloomily. All the awfulness of the storm seemed to her more splendid now. He had said what her soul longed to hear. Though she feared it with her reason, she made no answer, and in her face he saw conflict. Forgive me if you dislike what I said, he said humbly. He had spoken courteously, deferentially yet so firmly, so stubbornly, that for a long while she could make no answer. It's wrong what you say, and I beg you, if you're a good man, to forget what you've said, as I forget it, she said at last. Not one word, nor one gesture of yours, shall I, could I, ever forget. Enough! Enough! she cried, trying assiduously to give a stern expression to her face into which she was gazing greedily, and clutching at the cold door-post she clambered up the steps and got rapidly into the corridor of the carriage. But in the little corridor she paused, going over in her imagination what had happened. Though she could not recall her own words or his, she realized instinctively that the momentary conversation had brought them fearfully closer, and she was panic-stricken and blissful at it. After standing still a few seconds, she went into the carriage and sat down in her place. The overstrained condition which had tormented her before did not only come back but was intensified, and reached such a pitch that she was afraid every minute that something would snap within her from the excessive tension. She did not sleep all night, but in that nervous tension, and in the visions that filled her imagination, there was nothing disagreeable or gloomy. On the contrary, there was something blissful, glowing and exhilarating. Towards morning Anna sank into a dose, sitting in her place, and when she waked it was daylight, and the train was near Petersburg. At once thoughts of home, of husband and of son, and the details of that day and the following came upon her. At Petersburg, as soon as the train stopped and she got out the first person that attracted her attention, was her husband. Oh, Mercy, why do his ears look like that? She thought, looking at his frigid and imposing figure, and especially the ears that struck her at the moment, as propping up the brim of his round hat. Catching sight of her he came to meet her. His lips falling into their epitual sarcastic smile, and his big tired eyes looking straight at her. An unpleasant sensation gripped at her heart when she met his obstinate and weary glance, as though she had expected to see him different. She was especially struck by that feeling of dissatisfaction with herself that she experienced on meeting him. That feeling was an intimate, familiar feeling, like a consciousness of hypocrisy which she experienced in her relations with her husband, but hitherto she had not taken note of the feeling. Now she was clearly and painfully aware of it. Yes, as you see, your tender spouse, as devoted as the first year after marriage, burned with impatience to see you, he said, in his deliberate, high-pitched voice, and in that tone which he almost always took at her, a tone of jeering at anyone who should say in earnest what he said. Is Sir Yosha quite well? she asked. And this is all the reward, said he, for my ardour. He's quite well. End of Chapter 30. This recording is in the public domain. Part I, Chapter 31 of Anna Karenina. Read for LibriVox.org by Kirsten Ferrari. Fransky had not even tried to sleep all that night. He sat in his arm-chair, looking straight out before him or scanning the people who got in and out. If he had indeed on previous occasions struck and impressed people who did not know him by his air of unhesitating composure, he seemed now more haughty and self-possessed than ever. He looked at people as if they were things. A nervous young man, a cleric and a law court sitting opposite him, hated him for that look. The young man asked him for a light and entered into a conversation with him and even pushed against him to make him feel that he was not a thing but a person. But Fransky gazed at him exactly as he did at the lamp, and the young man made a rye face, feeling that he was losing his self-possession under the oppression of this refusal to recognize him as a person. Fransky saw nothing and no one. He felt himself a king, not because he believed that he had made an impression on Anna, he did not yet believe that, but because the impression she had made on him gave him happiness and pride. What would come of it all he did not know, he did not even think. He felt that all his forces, his or two dissipated, wasted, were centered on one thing, and bent with fearful energy on one blissful goal, and he was happy at it. He knew only that he had told her the truth, that he had come where she was, that all the happiness of his life, the only meaning in life for him, now lay in hearing and seeing her. And when he got out of the carriage at Bolagova to get some seltzer water, and caught sight of Anna, involuntarily his first word had told her just what he thought, and he was glad he had told her it, that she knew it now and was thinking of it. He did not sleep all night. When he was back in the carriage he kept unceasingly going over every position in which he had seen her, every word she had uttered, and before his fancy making his heart faint with emotion floated pictures of a possible future. When he got out of the train at Petersburg he felt after his sleepless night, as keen and fresh as after a cold bath. He paused near his compartment, waiting for her to get out. Once more he said to himself, smiling unconsciously, once more I shall see her walk, her face. She will say something, turn her head, glance, smile maybe. But before he got sight of her he saw her husband, whom the station master was deferentially escorting through the crowd. Ah, yes, the husband. Only now for the first time did Vronsky clearly realize the fact that there was a person attached to her, a husband. He knew that she had a husband but had hardly believed in his existence, and only now fully believed in him, with his head and shoulders and his legs clad in black trousers, especially when he saw this husband calmly take her arm with a sense of property. Seeing Alexei Alexandrovich with his Petersburg face and severely self-confident figure, in his round hat with his rather prominent spine, he believed in him and was aware of a disagreeable sensation, such as a man might feel tortured by thirst, who, unreaching a spring, should find a dog, a sheep, or a pig, who is drunk of it and muddied the water. Alexei Alexandrovich's manner of walking, with a swing of the hips and flat feet, particularly annoyed Vronsky, he could recognize in no one but himself an indubitable right to love her. But she was still the same, and the sight of her affected him the same way, physically reviving him, stirring him and filling his soul with rapture. He told his German valet who ran up to him from the second class to take his things and go on, and he himself went up to her. He saw the first meeting between the husband and wife and noted with a lover's insight the signs of slight reserve with which she spoke to her husband. No, she does not love him and cannot love him. He decided to himself. At the moment when he was approaching Anna Arkadyevna he noticed, too, with joy that she was conscious of his being near, and looked round, and seeing him, turned again to her husband. You passed a good night, he asked, bowing to her and her husband together, and leaving it up to Alexei Alexandrovich to accept the bow on his own account, and to recognize it or not as he might see fit. Thank you, very good, she answered. Her face looked weary, and there was not that play of eagerness in it, peeping out in her smile and her eyes, but for a single instant as she glanced at him there was a flash of something in her eyes, and although the flash died away at once he was happy for that moment. She glanced at her husband to find out whether he knew Fronsky. Alexei Alexandrovich looked at Fronsky with displeasure, vaguely recalling who this was. Fronsky's composure and self-confidence here struck like a sigh against a stone upon the cold self-confidence of Alexei Alexandrovich. Count Fronsky said, Anna. Ah, we are acquainted, I believe, said Alexei Alexandrovich, indifferently, giving his hand. You set off with the mother and you returned with the son, he said, articulating each syllable as though each were a separate favour he was bestowing. You're back from leave, I suppose, he said, and without waiting for a reply he turned to his wife in his jesting tone. Well, were great many tears shed at Moscow at parting. By addressing his wife like this he gave Fronsky to understand that he wished to be left alone, and turning slightly towards him he touched his hat, but Fronsky turned to Anna Arkadyevna. I hope I may have the honour of calling on you, he said. Alexei Alexandrovich glensed with his weary eyes at Fronsky. Delighted, he said coldly, on Monday's work home. Most fortunate, he said to his wife, demissing Fronsky altogether, that I should have just half an hour to meet you so I can prove my devotion. He went on in the same jesting tone. You lay too much stress on your devotion for me to value it much, she responded in the same jesting tone, involuntarily listening to the sound of Fronsky's steps behind them. But what has it to do with me, she said to herself? And she began asking her, husband, how Seryosha had gone on without her. Oh, capitally! Mariette says he's been very good. And I must disappoint you, but he has not missed you as your husband has. But once more, merci, my dear, for giving me a day. Our dear Samovar will be delighted. He used to call the Countess Lydia Ivanovna, well known in society, a Samovar, because she was always bubbling over with excitement. She's been continually asking after you. And do you know, if I may venture to advise you, you should go and see her today. You know how she takes everything to heart. Just now, with all her own cares, she's very anxious about the Blonskys being brought together. The Countess Lydia Ivanovna was a friend of her husbands, and the center of that one of the coteries of the Petersburg world with which Anna was through her husband in the closest relations. But you know I wrote to her. Still to want to hear details, go and see her, if you're not too tired, my dear. Well, Condrati will take you in the carriage, while I go to my committee. I shall not be alone at dinner again." Alexei Alexandrovich went on, no longer in a sarcastic tone. You wouldn't believe how I've missed. And with a long pressure of her hand and a meaning smile, he put her in her carriage. CHAPTER XXXII Anna at home was her son. He dashed down the stairs to her in spite of the governess's call, and with desperate joy shrieked, Mother, mother! Running up to her he hung on her neck. I told you it was mother, he shouted to the governess, I knew. And her son, like her husband, aroused in Anna a feeling akin to disappointment. She had imagined him better than he was in reality. She had to let herself drop down to the reality to enjoy him as he really was. But even as he was, he was charming, with his fair curls, his blue eyes, and his plump graceful little legs, and tightly pulled up stockings. Anna experienced almost physical pleasure in the sensation of his nearness, and his caresses, and moral soothing when she met his simple confiding and loving glance, and heard his naive questions. Anna took out the presents Dolly's children had sent him, and told her son what sort of a little girl was Tanya and Musko, and how Tanya could read and even taught the other children. Why, am I not so nice as she asked, Sarayosha? To me you're nicer than anyone in the world. I know that, said Sarayosha, smiling. Anna had not had time to drink her coffee when the Countess Lydia Ivanovna was announced. The Countess Lydia Ivanovna was a tall, stout woman with an unhealthily sallow face, and splendid, pensive black eyes. Anna liked her, but today she seemed to be seeing her for the first time with all her defects. Well, my dear, so you took the olive branch, inquired Countess Lydia Ivanovna, as soon as she came into the room. Yes, it's all over, but it was all much less serious than we had supposed, answered Anna. My bell sure is in general too hasty. But Countess Lydia Ivanovna, though she was interested in everything that did not concern her, had a habit of never listening to what interested her. She interrupted Anna. Yes, there's plenty of sorrow and evil in the world. I'm so worried to-day. Oh, why? asked Anna, suppressing a smile. I'm beginning to be weary of fruitlessly championing the truth, and sometimes I'm quite unhinged by it. The society of the little sisters—this was a religiously patriotic philanthropic institution—was going splendidly. But with these gentlemen it's impossible to do anything, added Countess Lydia Ivanovna, in a tone of ironical submission to destiny. They pounced on the idea, and distorted, and then worked it out so petally, and unworthily. Two or three people, your husband among them, understand all the importance of the thing, but the others simply drag it down. Yesterday Pravdeen wrote to me—Pravdeen was a well-known pen slavest abroad—and Countess Lydia Ivanovna described the purport of his letter. Then the Countess told her of more disagreements and intrigues against the work of the unification of the churches, and departed in haste, as she had that day to be at the meeting of some society and also at the Slavonic committee. It was all the same before, of course, but why was it I didn't notice it before? Anna asked herself. Or has she been very much irritated to-day? It's really ludicrous. Her object is doing good. She's a Christian, yet she's always angry, and she always has enemies, and always enemies in the name of Christianity and doing good. After Countess Lydia Ivanovna another friend came—the wife of the chief secretary, who told her all the news of the town. At three o'clock she too went away, promising to come to dinner. Alexei Alexandrovich was at the ministry. Anna, left alone, spent the time till dinner in assisting at her son's dinner. He dined apart from his parents, and in putting her things in order, and in reading and answering the notes and letters which had accumulated on her table. The feeling of causeless shame, which she had felt on the journey, and her excitement, too, had completely vanished. In the habitual conditions of her life she felt again resolute and irreproachable. She recalled with wonder her state of mind on the previous day. What was it? Nothing. Fransky said something silly, which it was easy to put a stop to, and I answered as I ought to have done. To speak of it to my husband would be unnecessary and out of the question. To speak of it would be to attach importance to what has no importance. She remembered how she had told her husband of what was almost a declaration made her at Petersburg by a young man—one of her husband's subordinates. And how Alexei Alexandrovich had answered that every woman living in the world was exposed to such incidents. But that he had the fullest confidence in her tact, and could never lower her and himself by jealousy. So then there's no reason to speak of it. And indeed, thank God there is nothing to speak of. She told herself. End of CHAPTER XXXII Alexei Alexandrovich came back from the meeting of the ministers at four o'clock, but as often happened he had not time to come into her. He went into his study to see the people waiting for him with petitions, and to sign some papers brought him by his chief secretary. At dinnertime there were always a few people dining with the Karenins. There arrived an old lady, a cousin of Alexei Alexandrovich, the chief secretary of the department, and his wife, and a young man who had been recommended to Alexei Alexandrovich for the service. Anna went into the drawing-room to receive these guests. Precisely at five o'clock, before the bronze Peter the first clock had struck the fifth stroke, Alexei Alexandrovich came in, wearing a white tie and evening coat with two stars as he had to go out directly after dinner. Every minute of Alexei Alexandrovich's life was portioned out and occupied, and to make time to get through all that lay before him every day, he adhered to the strictest punctuality. Unhasting and unresting was his motto. He came into the dining-hall, greeted everyone, and hurriedly sat down smiling to his wife. Yes, my solitude is over. You wouldn't believe how uncomfortable." He laid stress on the word uncomfortable. It is to dine alone. At dinner he talked a little to his wife about Moscow matters, and with a sarcastic smile asked her after Stepan Arkadievich, but the conversation was, for the most part, general, dealing with Petersburg official and public news. After dinner he spent half an hour with his guests, and again with a smile pressed his wife's hand, withdrew, and drove off to the council. Anna did not go out that evening, either to the Princess Betsy Stervetskaya, who, hearing of her return, had invited her, nor to the theatre where she had a box for that evening. She did not go out principally because the dress that she had reckoned upon was not ready. All together, Anna, unturning, after the departure of her guests to the consideration of her attire, was very much annoyed. She was generally a mistress of the art of dressing well without great expense, and before leaving Moscow she had given her dressmaker three dresses to transform. The dresses had to be altered so that they could not be recognized, and they ought to have been ready three days before. It appeared that two dresses had not been done at all, while the other one had not been altered as Anna had intended. The dressmaker came to explain, declaring that it would be better, as she had done it, and Anna was so furious that she felt ashamed when she thought of it afterwards. To regain her serenity completely she went into the nursery, and spent the whole evening with her son, put him to bed herself, signed him with the cross, and tucked him up. She was glad she had not gone out anywhere, and had spent the evening so well. She felt so light-hearted and serene. She saw so clearly that all that had seemed to her so important on her railway journey was only one of the common trivial incidents of fashionable life, and that she had no reason to feel ashamed before anyone else or before herself. Anna sat down at the hearth with an English novel and waited for her husband. Exactly at half-past nine she heard his ring, and he came into the room. Here you are at last, she observed, holding out her hand to kiss. He kissed her hand and sat down beside her. All together then I see their visit was a success, he said to her. Oh, yes, she said, and she began telling him about everything from the beginning—her journey with Countess Franscaya, her arrival, the accident at the station—then she described the pity she had felt first for her brother and afterwards for Dolly. I imagine one cannot exonerate such a man from blame, though he is your brother, said Alexei Alexandrovich severely. Anna smiled. She knew that he said that simply to show that family considerations could not prevent him from expressing his genuine opinion. She knew that characteristic in her husband, and liked it. I'm glad it has all ended so satisfactorily, and that you are back again. He went on. Come, what did they say about the new act I've got passed in the Council? Anna had heard nothing of this act, and she felt conscious stricken at having been able so readily to forget what was to him of such importance. Here on the other hand it has made a great sensation, he said, with a complacent smile. She saw that Alexei Alexandrovich wanted to tell her something pleasant to him about it, and she brought him by questions to telling it. With the same complacent smile he told her of the ovations he had received in consequence of the act he had passed. I was very, very glad. It shows that at last a reasonable and steady view of the matter is becoming prevalent among us. Having drunk his second cup of tea with cream and bread, Alexei Alexandrovich got up and was going toward his study. You've not been anywhere this evening? You've been dull, I expect, he said. Oh, no, she answered, getting up after him and accompanying him across the room to his study. What are you reading now? She asked. Just now I'm reading Duc de Lyu, Poissy d'Enferres. He answered. A very remarkable book. Anna smiled, as people smile at the weaknesses of those they love, and putting her hand under his she escorted him to the door of the study. She knew his habit that had grown into necessity of reading in the evening. She knew, too, that in spite of his official duties, which swallowed up almost the whole of his time, he considered it his duty to keep up with everything of note that appeared in the intellectual world. She knew, too, that he was really interested in books dealing with politics, philosophy, and theology, that art was utterly foreign to his nature, but in spite of this, or rather in consequence of it, Alexei Alexandrovich never passed over anything in the world of art, but made it his duty to read everything. She knew that in politics, in philosophy, in theology, Alexei Alexandrovich often had doubts and made investigations. But on questions of art and poetry, and above all of music, of which he was totally devoid of understanding, he had the most distinct and decided opinions. He was fond of talking about Shakespeare, Ravel, Beethoven, of the significance of new schools of poetry and music, all of which were classified by him with very conspicuous consistency. "'Well, God be with you,' she said, at the door of the study, where a shaded candle and a decanter of water were already put by his armchair. "'And I'll write to Moscow.' He pressed her hand and again kissed it. "'All the same he's a good man, truthful, good-hearted, and remarkable in his own line,' Anna said to herself, going back to her room, as though she were defending him to someone who had attacked him and said that one could not love him. But why is it his ears stick out so strangely? Or has he had his hair cut?' Precisely at twelve o'clock, when Anna was still sitting at her writing-table, finishing a letter to Dolly, she heard the sound of measured steps in slippers, and Alexei Aleksandrovich freshly washed and combed with a book under his arm came into her. "'It's time, it's time,' said he with a meaning smile, and he went into their bedroom.' "'And what right had he to look at him like that?' thought Anna, recalling Vronsky's glance at Alexei Aleksandrovich. Undressing, she went into their bedroom. But her face had none of the eagerness which, during her stay in Moscow, had fairly flashed from her eyes and her smile. On the contrary, now the fire seemed quenched in her, hidden somewhere far away." CHAPTER XXXIV of Anna Karenina, read for LibriVox.org by Kirsten Ferreri. When Vronsky went to Moscow from Petersburg he had left his large set of rooms in Morskaya to his friend and famous comrade Petritsky. Petritsky was a young lieutenant, not particularly well connected and not merely not wealthy but always hopelessly in debt. Towards evening he was always drunk, and he had often been locked up after all sorts of ludicrous and disgraceful scandals, but he was a favorite both of his comrades and his superior officers. On arriving at twelve o'clock from the station at his flat, Vronsky saw at the outer door a hired carriage familiar to him. While still outside his own door as he rang he heard masculine laughter, the lisp of a feminine voice, and Petritsky's voice. That's one of the villains. Don't let him in." Vronsky told the servant not to announce him, and slipped quietly into the first room. Baroness Shilton, a friend of Petritsky's, with a rosy little face and flaxen hair, resplendent in a lilac satin gown and filling the whole room like a canary with her perigian chatter, sat at the round table making coffee. Petritsky in his overcoat and the cavalry captain Khamarovsky in full uniform probably just come from duty were sitting each side of her. Bravo, Vronsky, shouted Petritsky, jumping up, scraping his chair. Our host himself, Baroness, some coffee from him out of the new coffee-pot. Why, we didn't expect you. Hope you're satisfied with the ornament of your study, he said, indicating the Baroness. You know each other, of course." "'I should think so,' said Vronsky, with a bright smile, pressing the Baroness's little hand. "'What next? I'm an old friend.' "'Your home after a journey,' said the Baroness. "'So I'm flying. Oh, I'll be off this minute if I'm in the way.' "'Your home wherever you are, Baroness,' said Vronsky. "'How do you do, Khamarovsky?' he added, coldly shaking hands with Khamarovsky. "'There, you never know how to say such pretty things,' said the Baroness, turning to Petritsky. "'No, what's that for? After dinner I say things quite as good.' "'After dinner there's no credit in them. Well, then I'll make you some coffee, so go wash and get ready,' said the Baroness, sitting down again and anxiously turning the screw in the new coffee-pot. "'Pierre, give me the coffee,' she said, addressing Petritsky, whom she called Pierre as a contraction of his surname, making no secret of her relations with him. "'I'll put it in. "'You'll spoil it?' "'No, I won't spoil it.' "'Well, and your wife,' said the Baroness suddenly, interrupting Vronsky's conversation with his comrade, "'we've been marrying you here. Have you brought your wife?' "'No, Baroness, I was born a Bohemian and a Bohemian I shall die.' "'So much the better. So much the better. Shake hands on it.' And the Baroness, detaining Vronsky, began telling him with many jokes about her last new plans of life, asking his advice. He persists in refusing to give me a divorce. Well, what am I to do?' He was her husband. Now I want to begin a suit against him. What do you advise? Kamarovsky, look after the coffee. It's boiling over. You see, I'm engrossed with business. I want a lawsuit, because I must have my property. Do you understand the folly of it? That on the pretext of my being unfaithful to him, she said contemptuously, he wants to get the benefit of my fortune?' He heard with pleasure this light-hearted prattle of a pretty woman, agreed with her, gave her half-joking counsel, and altogether dropped at once into the tone habitual to him in talking to such women. In his Petersburg world all people were divided into utterly opposed classes. One, the lower class, vulgar, stupid, and above all ridiculous people, who believed that one husband ought to live with the one wife whom he is lawfully married. That a girl should be innocent, a woman modest, and a man manly, self-controlled, and strong. One ought to bring up one's children, earn one's bread, and pay one's debts. And various similar absurdities. This was the class of old-fashioned and ridiculous people. But there was another class of people, the real people. To this class they all belonged. And in it the greatest thing was to be elegant, generous, plucky, gay, to abandon oneself without a blush to every passion, and to laugh at everything else. For the first moment only, Voronsky was startled after the impression of a quite different world that he had brought with him from Moscow. But immediately as, the slipping his feet into old slippers, he dropped back into the light-hearted, pleasant world he had always lived in. The coffee was never really made, but spluttered over everyone and boiled away, doing just what was required of it, that is providing much cause for much noise and laughter, and spoiling a costly rug and the Baroness's gown. Well now, good-bye, or you'll never get watched, and I shall have on my conscience the worst sin a gentleman can commit, so you would advise a knife to his throat. To be sure, and manage that your hand may not be far from his lips, he'll kiss your hand and all will end satisfactorily," answered Voronsky. So at the Francaise, and with a rustle of her skirts, she vanished. Kamrovsky got up, too, and Voronsky, not waiting for him to go, shook hands, and went off to his dressing-room. While he was washing, Patritsky described to him in brief outlines his position, as far as it had changed since Voronsky had left Petersburg. No money at all. His father said he wouldn't give him any and pay his debts. Taylor was trying to get him locked up, and another fellow, too, was threatening to get him locked up. The Colonel of the Regiment had announced that if these scandals did not cease, he would have to leave. As for the Baroness, he was sick to death of her, especially since she'd taken to offering continually to lend him money. But he had found a girl—he'd show her to Voronsky—a marvel, exquisite, in the strict Oriental style—genre of the slave Rebecca, don't you know? He'd had a row, too, with Berkeshov, and was going to send seconds to him, but of course it would come to nothing. All together everything was supremely amusing and jolly. And not letting his comrade enter into further details of his position, Patritsky proceeded to tell him all the interesting news. As he listened to Patritsky's familiar stories and the familiar setting of the rooms he had spent the last three years in, Voronsky felt a delightful sense of coming back to the careless Petersburg life that he was used to. Impossible he cried, letting down the pedestal of the washing-basin in which he had been sowsing his healthy red neck. Impossible he cried, at the news that Laura had flung over Fertinkov and had made up to meleaf. And is he as stupid and pleased as ever? Well, and how's Bazulikov? Oh, there's a tale about Bazulikov, simply lovely, cried Patritsky. You know his weakness for balls, and he never misses a single court ball. He went to a big ball in a new helmet. Have you seen the new helmet? It's very nice, lighter. Well, so he's standing. No, I say it, do listen. I am listening, answered Voronsky, rubbing himself with a rough towel. Up comes Grand Duchess, with some ambassador or other, and as ill luck would have it, she begins talking to him about the new helmets. The Grand Duchess positively wants to show the new helmet to the ambassador. They say our friend's standing there. Patritsky mimicked how he was standing with the helmet. The Grand Duchess asked him to give her the helmet. He doesn't give it to her. What do you think of that? Well, everyone's winking at him, nodding, frowning. Give it to her. Do. He doesn't give it to her. He's mute as a fish. Only picture it. Well, the—what's his name? Whatever he was—tries to take the helmet from him. He won't give it up. He bows it from him and hands it to the Grand Duchess. Here Your Highness says he is the new helmet. She turned the helmet the other side up and—just picture it—plop went a pair and sweet-meats out of it—two pounds of sweet-meats—he'd been storing them up, the darling. Fronsky burst into roars of laughter, and long afterwards, when he was talking of other things, he broke out into his healthy laugh, showing his strong, close rows of teeth when he thought of the helmet. Having heard all the news, Fronsky, with the assistance of his valet, got into his uniform and went off to report himself. He intended, when he had done that, to drive to his brothers and to Betsy's and to pay several visits, with a view to beginning to go into that society where he might meet Madame Karenina. As he always did in Petersburg, he left home not meaning to return till late at night. End of CHAPTER XXXIV. This recording is in the public domain.