Anna smiled, as one smiles at the weaknesses of people one loves, and, putting her arm under his, accompanied him to the door of the study. She knew his habit, which had become a necessity, of reading in the evenings. She knew that in spite of the responsibilities of service which consumed almost all his time, he considered it his duty to follow everything remarkable that appeared in the intellectual sphere. She also knew that he was indeed interested in books on politics, philosophy, theology, that art was completely foreign to his nature, but that, in spite of that, or rather because of it, Alexei Alexandrovich did not miss anything that caused a stir in that area, and considered it his duty to read everything. She knew that in the areas of politics, philosophy and theology, Alexei Alexandrovich doubted or searched; but in questions of art and poetry, and especially music, of which he lacked all understanding, he had the most definite and firm opinions. He liked to talk about Shakespeare, Raphael, Beethoven, about the significance of the new schools in poetry and music, which with him were all sorted out in a very clear order.
‘Well, God bless you,’ she said at the door of the study, where a shaded candle and a carafe of water had already been prepared for him beside the armchair. ‘And I’ll write to Moscow.’
He pressed her hand and again kissed it.
‘All the same, he’s a good man, truthful, kind and remarkable in his sphere,’ Anna said to herself, going back to her room, as if defending him before someone who was accusing him and saying that it was impossible to love him. ‘But why do his ears stick out so oddly? Did he have his hair cut?’
Exactly at midnight, when Anna was still sitting at her desk finishing a letter to Dolly, she heard the measured steps of slippered feet, and Alexei Alexandrovich, washed and combed, a book under his arm, came up to her.
‘It’s time, it’s time,’ he said with a special smile, and went into the bedroom.
‘And what right did he have to look at him like that?’ thought Anna, recalling how Vronsky had looked at Alexei Alexandrovich.
She undressed and went to the bedroom, but not only was that animation which had simply burst from her eyes and smile when she was in Moscow gone from her face: on the contrary, the fire now seemed extinguished in her or hidden somewhere far away.
XXXIV
On his departure from Petersburg, Vronsky had left his big apartment on Morskaya to his friend and favourite comrade Petritsky.
Petritsky was a young lieutenant, of no especially high nobility, not only not rich but in debt all around, always drunk towards evening, and often ending up in the guard house for various funny and dirty episodes, but loved by both his comrades and his superiors. Driving up to his apartment from the railway station towards noon, Vronsky saw a familiar hired carriage by the entrance. In response to his ring, he heard men’s laughter from behind the door, a woman’s voice prattling in French and Petritsky’s shout: ‘If it’s one of those villains, don’t let him in!’ Vronsky told the orderly not to announce him and quietly went into the front room. Baroness Shilton, Petritsky’s lady-friend, her lilac satin dress and rosy fair face shining, and her canary-like Parisian talk filling the whole room, was sitting at a round table making coffee. Petritsky in a civilian overcoat and the cavalry captain Kamerovsky in full uniform, probably just off duty, were sitting on either side of her.
‘Bravo! Vronsky!’ cried Petritsky, jumping up noisily from his chair. ‘The host himself! Coffee for him, Baroness, from the new coffeepot. We weren’t expecting you! I hope you’re pleased with the new ornament of your study,’ he said, pointing to the baroness. ‘You’re acquainted?’
‘What else!’ said Vronsky, smiling gaily and pressing the baroness’s little hand. ‘We’re old friends!’
‘You’re back from a trip,’ said the baroness, ‘so I’ll run off. Oh, I’ll leave this very minute if I’m in the way.’
‘You’re at home right where you are, Baroness,’ said Vronsky. ‘Good day, Kamerovsky,’ he added, coldly shaking Kamerovsky’s hand.
‘See, and you never know how to say such pretty things.’ The baroness turned to Petritsky.
‘No? Why not? I’ll do no worse after dinner.’
‘After dinner there’s no virtue in it! Well, then I’ll give you some coffee, go wash and tidy yourself up,’ said the baroness, sitting down again and carefully turning a screw in the new coffeepot. ‘Pass me the coffee, Pierre.’ She turned to Petritsky, whom she called Pierre after his last name, not concealing her relations with him. ‘I’ll add some more.’
‘You’ll spoil it.’
‘No, I won’t! Well, and your wife?’ the baroness said suddenly, interrupting Vronsky’s conversation with his comrade. ‘We’ve got you married here. Did you bring your wife?’
‘No, Baroness. I was born a gypsy and I’ll die a gypsy.’
‘So much the better, so much the better. Give me your hand.’
