PART TWO

 

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Chapter 1

 

 

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TOWARD the end of the winter a consultation was held at the Shcherbatskys’ which was intended to ascertain the state of Kitty’s health and to decide what should be done to restore her failing strength. She was ill, and with the approach of spring grew worse. Their own doctor prescribed cod-liver oil, then iron, and then nitrate of silver, but as none of them did her any good and as he advised her to go abroad for the spring they sent for a celebrated specialist.

 

The celebrated specialist, a very handsome man and by no means old, insisted on sounding the invalid.

 

He, with particular pleasure as it seemed, insisted that a maidenly sense of shame is only a relic of barbarism, and that nothing is more natural than for a man still in his prime to handle a young woman’s naked body. He considered this natural because he did it every day, and did not, it seemed to him, either feel or think anything wrong when he did it. He therefore considered the feeling of shame in a girl to be not only a relic of barbarism but an insult to him.

 

They had to submit, for although all the doctors studied in the same schools and from the same books and knew the same sciences, and though some said that this celebrated man was a bad doctor, at the Princess Shcherbatskaya’s and in her set it was for some reason assumed that he alone had a quite special knowledge and he alone could save Kitty. After having carefully examined and sounded the agitated invalid, who was stupefied with shame, the celebrity, having carefully washed his hands, stood in the drawing-room talking to the Prince. The Prince frowned and coughed as he listened to the doctor. As a man who had lived in the world and was neither stupid nor ill, the Prince did not believe in medicine, and in his heart was vexed at this farce, especially as he himself was probably the only one who thoroughly understood the cause of Kitty’s illness. ‘What a windbag,’ he thought as he listened to the celebrated doctor’s chatter about Kitty’s symptoms. The doctor meanwhile found it hard not to show his contempt for the old fellow, and with difficulty descended to the level of his comprehension. He saw that it was a waste of time to talk to him, and that the head in this house was the mother. It was before her that he meant to spread his pearls.

 

Just then the Princess entered the room with the family doctor. The Prince moved away, trying not to show how absurd he thought the whole farce. The Princess was confused and did not know what to do. She felt guilty toward Kitty.

 

‘Well, doctor, decide our fate,’ she said. ‘Tell me everything. . . . Is there any hope?’ she meant to ask, but her lips trembled and she could not utter that question, and only added: ‘Well, doctor?’

 

‘In a moment, Princess. I will just have a talk with my colleague, and then I shall have the honour of giving you my opinion.’

 

‘Then we had better leave you?’

 

‘As you please.’

 

The Princess left the room with a sigh.

 

When the doctors were alone, the family doctor began timidly to express his opinion, which was that a tuberculous process had begun, but . . . etc. The celebrity listened, but in the midst of the speech looked at his large gold watch.

 

‘Yes,’ said he, ‘but . . .’

 

The family doctor stopped respectfully in the middle of what he was saying.

 

‘We cannot, as you know, determine the beginning of a tuberculous process. As long as there are no cavities there is nothing definite to go by. But we may suspect it; and there are indications — a bad appetite, nervous excitability, and so on. The question is this: When a tuberculous process is suspected, what should be done to nourish the patient?’

 

‘But you know in these cases there is always some hidden moral cause,’ the family doctor allowed himself to remark with a subtle smile.

 

‘Yes, that goes without saying,’ replied the celebrity, and again looked at his watch. ‘Excuse me, has the bridge over the Yauza been repaired, or has one still to drive round?’ he asked. ‘Oh, it has been repaired! Well then, I can get there in twenty minutes. We were saying that the question is this: How to nourish the patient and strengthen the nerves. The two aims are connected, and we must act on both.’

 

‘How about a journey abroad?’ asked the family doctor.

 

‘I am opposed to journeys abroad. You see, if a tuberculous process has begun (which we don’t know), a journey abroad will not help the case. Something is necessary which will nourish the patient and do no harm.’ And the celebrity explained his plan of a treatment with Soden water, the chief reason for prescribing this evidently being that it could do no harm.

 

The family doctor listened attentively and respectfully to the end.

 

‘But in favour of a journey abroad I should like to mention the change of habits, and the removal from surroundings which awaken memories. Besides which, the mother wishes it,’ said he.

 

‘Ah, in that case let them go, only those German quacks will do mischief. . . . They must obey. . . . However, let them go.’

 

He again glanced at his watch. ‘I must be going!’ he said, moving toward the door.

 

The celebrity informed the Princess (his sense of what was fitting suggested this to him) that he would have to see the patient again.

 

‘What, another examination?’ exclaimed the mother, horror-struck.

 

‘Oh no, I must only find out a few details, Princess.’

 

‘If you please, doctor.’

 

And the mother, followed by the doctor, entered the room in the middle of which Kitty was standing. Her thin cheeks were flushed and her eyes were burning after the ordeal she had endured. When the doctor entered she blushed all over and her eyes filled with tears. Her whole illness and the treatment appeared to her stupid and even ridiculous. Her treatment seemed to her as absurd as piecing together the bits of a smashed vase. Her heart was broken. Why did they want to dose her with pills and powders? But she did not want to pain her mother, especially as her mother considered herself to blame.

 

‘Sit down, please, Princess,’ said the celebrity.

 

He sat down opposite to her, smiling, felt her pulse and again began asking tiresome questions. She answered him, but suddenly grew angry and rose.

 

‘Excuse me, doctor, but really this won’t lead to anything. You are asking me the same things three times over.’ The celebrity was not offended.

 

‘It’s only the excitability of an invalid,’ he said to the mother after Kitty had gone out. ‘And I had finished.’

 

And to the Princess, as to an exceptionally intelligent woman, the doctor diagnosed Kitty’s condition in learned language, and concluded with directions how the unnecessary waters were to be drunk.

 

In reply to the question whether they should go abroad, the doctor thought deeply, as if solving a difficult problem, and at last he decided that they should go, but should not believe the quacks, and when in doubt should always refer to him.

 

It was just as if something pleasant had happened when the doctor had gone, and Kitty too pretended to be cheerful. She often now, almost always, had to pretend.

 

‘Really, Mama! I am quite well. But if you wish to travel, let us go!’ and trying to appear interested in the journey she began to talk about the preparations for it.

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter 2

 

 

 

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JUST after the doctor had left, Dolly came. She knew that there was to be a consultation that day, and though she had only recently got up after a confinement (she had given birth to a daughter at the end of the winter), and though she had many troubles and cares of her own, she left her baby and another little girl of hers who was ill, and called to hear Kitty’s fate, which was to be decided that day.

 

‘Well, how is she?’ she said, entering the drawing-room without removing her bonnet. ‘You are all cheerful, so it must be all right!’

 

They tried to tell her what the doctor had said, but it turned out that though he had spoken very fluently and at great length, it was impossible to reproduce what he had said. The only thing of interest was that it had been decided they should go abroad.

 

Dolly could not suppress a sigh. Her best friend, her sister, was going away; and as it was, her life was not a bright one. Her relations with her husband after their reconciliation had become humiliating. Anna’s soldering had not proved durable, and the family harmony had broken again at the same place. There was nothing definite, but Oblonsky was hardly ever at home, there was hardly ever any money, and suspicions of his infidelity continually tormented Dolly, who tried to repel them, fearing the already familiar pangs of jealousy. The first explosion of jealousy, once past, could not be repeated. Not even the discovery of an act of infidelity could again affect her as it had done the first time. Such a discovery could now only deprive her of her accustomed family life, and she let herself be deceived, despising him, and especially herself, for such weakness. Added to this the care of a large family worried her continually: either something went wrong with the feeding of the baby, or the nurse left, or, as now, one of the children fell ill.

 

‘And how are you all getting on?’ asked her mother.

 

‘Ah, Mama, we have plenty of trouble of our own. Lily has fallen ill, and I’m afraid it’s scarlet fever. I have come out to-day to hear the news, because I shall not come out at all if (which God forbid!) it really is scarlet fever.’

 

The old Prince came out of his study after the doctor had gone, and after giving his cheek to Dolly and greeting her he turned to his wife:

 

‘Well, have you made up your minds to go? And what are you going to do with me?’

 

‘I think you should stay behind, Alexander,’ replied his wife.

 

‘As you please.’

 

‘‘Mama, why should not Papa come with us?’ said Kitty, ‘It would be pleasanter for him and for us too.’

 

The old Prince rose and stroked Kitty’s hair. She lifted her face and, forcing a smile, looked up at him. She always felt that he understood her better than anyone else in the family, though he did not speak much to her. Being the youngest she was his favourite, and it seemed to her that his affection gave him insight. When her gaze now met his kindly blue eyes looking steadily at her, it seemed to her that he saw right through her, and knew all the trouble that was in her. She bent toward him, blushing, and expecting a kiss, but he only patted her on the head and remarked:

 

‘These stupid chignons! One can’t get at one’s real daughter, but only caresses the hair of expired females. Well, Dolly,’ he said, turning to his eldest daughter, ‘and what is your prodigal about?’

 

‘Nothing particular, Papa,’ answered Dolly, understanding that he referred to her husband. ‘He is always out, I hardly see him,’ — she could not resist adding with an ironical smile.

 

‘And has he not yet gone to the country to sell the forest?’

 

‘No, he is always preparing to go.’

 

‘Dear me!’ said the Prince. ‘And so I am also to prepare? I’m all obedience,’ he said to his wife, as he sat down again. ‘And look here, Kate,’ he went on, turning to his youngest daughter: ‘You must wake up one fine morning and say to yourself: “Why, I am quite well and happy, and will go out to walk in the frost again with Papa.” Eh?’

 

Her father’s words seemed very simple, but they made Kitty feel as confused and flurried as a detected criminal. ‘Yes, he knows and understands it all, and in these words is telling me that, though I am ashamed, I must get over my shame.’ She could not gather spirit enough to reply. She made an attempt, but suddenly burst into tears and ran away.

 

The Princess flew at her husband: ‘That comes of your jokes. You always . . . and she began reproaching him.

 

The Prince listened for some time to her rebukes in silence, but his face frowned more and more.

 

‘She is so pitiful, poor thing, so pitiful, and you don’t feel that every allusion to what has caused it hurts her. Oh dear, oh dear, to be so mistaken in anyone!’ said the Princess, and from the change in her tone both Dolly and the Prince knew that she was thinking of Vronsky. ‘I can’t think why we have no laws to punish such horrid, ignoble people.’

 

‘Oh, it makes me sick to hear it!’ muttered the Prince gloomily, rising as if he meant to go away, but stopping at the door. ‘The laws are there, my dear, and since you have invited it I will tell you who is at fault for it all: you, and you, and no one but you! There always have been and there still are laws against such fellows! Yes, and if nothing had been done that ought not to have been done, I, old as I am, would have challenged him — that fop! Yes, now go and dose her, and call in these quacks!’

 

The Prince appeared to have much more to say, but as soon as the Princess heard his tone she, as always happened in serious cases, gave in and became repentant.

 

‘Alexander, Alexander,’ she whispered, moving nearer and bursting into tears.

 

As soon as she began to cry the Prince quieted down, and came up to her.

 

‘That will do, that will do! You suffer too, I know. It can’t be helped! There’s no great harm done. God is merciful . . . thank you . . .’ he went on, no longer knowing what he was saying, and after responding to his wife’s wet kiss which he felt on his hand, he went out.

 

When Kitty, in tears, had left the room, Dolly, with her motherly habit of mind, at once saw that here a woman’s task lay before her, and prepared to fulfil it. She took off her bonnet and, having mentally rolled up her sleeves, prepared for action. While her mother was attacking her father, she tried to restrain the former as far as filial respect permitted. When the Prince flared up she kept silent, feeling shame for her mother and tenderness toward her father because of his immediate return to kindliness; but when her father left the room she was ready for the chief thing needful, which was to go to Kitty and comfort her.

 

‘I wanted to tell you something long ago, Mama. Do you know that Levin wished to propose to Kitty when he was here last? He told Stephen.’

 

‘Well, what of that? I don’t understand . . .’

 

‘Perhaps Kitty rejected him? . . . Did she not tell you . . . ?’

 

‘No, she told me nothing about either — she is too proud. But I know it is all because of that . . .’

 

‘Yes, and just imagine if she refused Levin — and she would not have refused him if it had not been for that other. I know. . . . And then . . . the other deceived her so dreadfully.’

 

It was too dreadful for the Princess to think how much she was to blame in regard to her daughter, and she grew angry.

 

‘Oh! I can’t make anything out! Nowadays girls all want to trust to their own reason. They don’t tell their mothers anything, and then . . .’

 

‘Mama, I will go to her.’

 

‘Go. Am I preventing you?’ said the mother.

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter 3

 

 

 

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ON entering Kitty’s little snuggery, a pretty pink room, decorated with vieux saxe [Dresden porcelain] figures — as fresh, rosy and gay as Kitty herself had been two months before, Dolly remembered how light-heartedly and with what love they two had arranged that room the year before. Her heart grew chill when she saw Kitty sitting on the low chair nearest the door, her eyes fixed on a corner of the carpet. Kitty glanced at her sister, but the cold and rather severe expression of her face did not change.

 

‘I am going home now and shall have to shut myself up, and you won’t be able to come to me,’ said Dolly, sitting down beside her sister. I want to talk to you.’

 

‘What about?’ asked Kitty quickly, lifting her face in alarm.

 

‘What but your troubles?’

 

‘I have no troubles.’

 

‘Come now, Kitty. Do you think I can help knowing? I know everything. And believe me it is so unimportant. . . . We have all passed through the same.’

 

Kitty was silent and her face looked stern.

 

‘He is not worthy of your suffering for him,’ continued Dolly, going straight to the point.

 

‘No, because he has despised me,’ said Kitty with a shaking voice. ‘Don’t speak! Please don’t speak!’

 

‘But who told you so? Nobody says so! I am sure he was in love with you and is still in love, but . . .’

 

‘Oh dear! these commiserations are what I dread most of all!’ cried Kitty, suddenly flaring up. She turned on her chair, blushed, and began rapidly moving her fingers, pressing now with one hand and now with the other the buckle of a belt she was holding. Dolly knew her sister’s habit of fingering something when she was heated, and she knew how apt Kitty was to forget herself when in a passion and to say much that was unpleasant and had better not have been said. She tried to pacify her; but it was too late.

 

‘What do you want me to feel, what?’ said Kitty quickly. ‘That I was in love with a man who wouldn’t have anything to do with me, and that I am dying for love of him? And it is my sister who says that to me. My sister who imagines . . . that . . . that she sympathizes with me. . . . I don’t want this commiseration and hypocrisy!’

 

‘Kitty, you are unfair!’

 

‘Why do you torment me?’

 

‘On the contrary, I see you are in distress. . . .’

 

But Kitty in her excitement did not listen to her.

 

‘There is nothing for me to grieve for or seek comfort about. I have enough pride never to let myself love a man who does not love me.’

 

‘But I am not suggesting it. . . . Only, tell me frankly,’ said Dolly, taking her by the hand, ‘did Levin speak to you?’

 

The mention of Levin seemed to deprive Kitty of the last fragments of self-control: she jumped up from her chair, threw the buckle on the floor, and rapidly gesticulating with her hands she began:

 

‘What has Levin to do with it? I don’t understand why you need torment me! I have said and I repeat I will never, never do what you are doing — returning to a man who has betrayed you and has loved another woman. I can’t understand it! You may do it, but I can’t.’

 

Having said these words she looked at her sister and seeing that Dolly remained silent with her head bowed sadly, Kitty, instead of leaving the room as she had intended to do, sat down by the door, and hiding her face in her handkerchief let her head sink down.

 

For a minute or two there was silence. Dolly was thinking about herself. The humiliation of which she was always conscious was peculiarly painful when her sister touched on it. She had not expected such cruelty from her, and was angry with her. But suddenly she heard the rustle of a dress and a burst of suppressed sobbing. A pair of arms encircled her neck from below and Kitty was kneeling before her.

 

‘Dolly dear, I am so, so unhappy!’ she whispered guiltily. And the sweet tear-stained face hid itself in the folds of Dolly’s dress.

 

As if tears were the necessary lubricant without which the machine of mutual confidence could not work properly between the sisters, after having had a cry they started talking of indifferent matters, and in so doing understood one another. Kitty knew that what she had said in her anger about the unfaithfulness of Dolly’s husband and about her humiliation had cut her poor sister to the depths of her heart, but that she was forgiven; while Dolly on her side learnt all that she wanted to know, her suspicions were confirmed and she understood that Kitty’s grief, her hopeless grief was really caused by the fact that Levin had proposed to her and that she had rejected him, and now that Vronsky had deceived her, she was prepared to love Levin and to hate Vronsky. Kitty did not say a word of this; she spoke only of her state of mind.

 

‘I have no troubles whatever,’ she said when she had grown calm, — ‘but can you understand that everything has become horrid, disgusting and coarse to me, and above all I myself? You can’t think what horrid thoughts I have about everything.’

 

‘But what horrid thoughts can you have?’ asked Dolly smiling.

 

‘The very nastiest and coarsest, I can’t tell you. It is not grief, not dullness, but much worse. It is as if all that was good in me had hidden itself, and only what is horrid remains. How am I to tell you?’ — she continued, noticing perplexity in her sister’s eyes: — ‘Papa began to speak to me just now. . . . It seems to me that he thinks that all I need is to get married. Mama takes me to a ball: and it seems to me she only takes me there to marry me off as quickly as possible and get rid of me. I know it is not true, but I can’t get rid of the idea. I can’t bear to see the so-called eligible men. I always think they are taking my measure. Formerly to go anywhere in a ball-dress was just a pleasure to me. I used to like myself in it; but now I feel ashamed and uncomfortable. Well, what is one to do? The doctor . . .’ Kitty became confused; she was going to say that since this change had come over her, Oblonsky had become intolerably disagreeable to her, and that she could not see him without having the coarsest and most monstrous fancies.

 

‘Well, you see, everything appears to me in the coarsest and most horrid aspect,’ she continued. ‘That is my illness. Perhaps it will pass . . .’

 

‘But don’t think . . .’

 

‘I can’t. I only feel comfortable with children, only in your house.’

 

‘What a pity you can’t come to see us!’

 

‘But I will come. I have had scarlet fever, and I will persuade Mama to let me.’

 

And Kitty insisted on having her own way, went to her sister’s, and nursed the children all through the scarlet fever that really attacked them. The two sisters nursed all the six children successfully through the illness, but Kitty’s health did not improve, and in Lent the Shcherbatskys went abroad.