engaged as governess. It will be seen that the young lady was come into
a family of very genteel connections, and was about to move in a much
more distinguished circle than the one she had just quitted in Russell
Square.
-II.--Two Marriages-
Before Rebecca had been a year at Queen's Crawley she had quite won the
Baronet's confidence. She was almost mistress of the house when Mr.
Crawley was absent, but conducted herself in her new and exalted
situation with such circumspection and modesty as not to offend the
authorities of the kitchen and stable.
The elder and younger son of the house of Crawley hated each other
cordially, and Rawdon Crawley, who was in the heavy dragoons, seldom
came to the place except when Miss Crawley paid her annual visit. The
great good quality of this old lady was that she possessed seventy
thousand pounds, and had almost adopted Rawdon.
Both Miss Crawley and Rawdon were charmed with Rebecca, and on Lady
Crawley's death Sir Pitt said to his children's governess, "I can't get
on without you. Come and be my wife. You're as good a lady as ever I
see. Say yes, Becky. I'm good for twenty years. I'll make you happy, see
if I don't."
Rebecca started back a picture of consternation, "O Sir Pitt!" she
said--"O sir--I--I'm married already!"
* * * * *
"Suppose the old lady doesn't come round, eh, Becky?" Rawdon said to his
little wife, as they sat together in their snug Brompton lodgings, a few
weeks later.
"-I'll- make your fortune," she said.
But old Miss Crawley did not come round, and Captain Rawdon Crawley and
Rebecca went to Brussels in June 1815 with the flower of the British
Army.
Another young married couple also went to Brussels at that time, Captain
George Osborne and Amelia his wife.
The landing of Napoleon at Cannes in March, 1815, brought, amongst other
things, ruin to the worthy old stockbroker John Sedley, and the most
determined and obstinate of his creditors was his old friend and
neighbour John Osborne--whom he had set up in life, and whose son was to
marry his daughter, and who consequently had the intolerable sense of
former benefit to goad and irritate him.
Joseph Sedley acted as a man of his disposition would; when the
announcement of the family misfortune reached him. He did not come to
London, but he wrote to his mother to draw upon his agents for whatever
money was wanted, so that his kind broken-spirited old parents had no
present poverty to fear. This done, Joseph went on at his boarding-house
at Cheltenham pretty much as before.
Amelia took the news very pale and calmly. A brutal letter from John
Osborne told her in a few curt lines that all engagements between the
families were at an end, and old Joseph Sedley spoke with almost equal
bitterness. No power on earth, he swore, would induce him to marry his
daughter to the son of such a villain, and he ordered Emmy to banish
George from her mind.
It was Captain William Dobbin, who, having made up his mind that Miss
Sedley would die of the disappointment, found himself the great promoter
of the match between George Osborne and Amelia.
To old Sedley's refusal Dobbin answered finally, "If you don't give your
daughter your consent it will be her duty to marry without it. What
better answer can there be to Osborne's attacks on you, than that his
son claims to enter your family and marry your daughter?"
George Osborne parted in anger from his father.
"I ain't going to have any of this damn sentimental nonsense here, sir,"
old Osborne cried out at the end of the interview. "There shall be no
beggar-marriages in my family." He pulled frantically at the cord to
summon the butler and, almost black in the face, ordered that
functionary to call a coach for Captain Osborne.
George told Dobbin what had passed between his father and himself.
"I'll marry her to-morrow," he said, with an oath. "I love her more
every day, Dobbin."
So on a gusty, raw day at the aid of April Captain Osborne and Captain
Dobbin drove down to a certain chapel near the Fulham Road.
"Here you are," said Joseph Sedley, coming forward. "What a day, eh?
You're five minutes late, George, my boy. Come along; my mother and Emmy
are in the vestry."
There was nobody in the church besides the officiating persons and a
small marriage party and their attendants. Old Sedley would not be
present. Joseph acted for his father giving away the bride, whilst
Captain Dobbin stepped up as groomsman to his friend George.
"God bless you, old Dobbin," George said, grasping him by the hand, when
they went into the vestry and signed the register. William replied only
by nodding his head; his heart was too full to say much.
Ten days after the above ceremony Dobbin came down to Brighton, where
not only Captain Osborne and Amelia, but also the Rawdon Crawleys were
enjoying themselves, with news. He had seen old Osborne, and tried to
reconcile him to his son's marriage, with the result that he left the
implacable old man in a fit. He had also learnt from his old Colonel
that in a day or two the army would get its marching orders, for
Belgium.
"It's my opinion, George," he said, "that the French Emperor will be
upon us before three weeks are over. But you need not say that to Mrs.
Osborne, you know, and Brussels is full of fine people and ladies of
fashion."
Little Amelia, it must be owned, had rather a mean opinion of her
husband's friend, Captain Dobbin. He was very plain and homely-looking,
and exceedingly awkward and ungainly. Not knowing him intimately as yet,
she made light of honest William; and he knew her opinions of him quite
well, and acquiesced in them very humbly. A time came when she knew him
better, and changed her notions regarding him; but that was distant as
yet.
As for Rebecca, Captain Dobbin had not been two hours in the ladies'
company before she understood his secret perfectly. She did not like
him, and feared him privately. He was so honest, that her arts did not
affect him, and he shrank from her with instinctive repugnance.
On May 8 George Osborne received a letter from his father's lawyer,
informing him that "in consequence of the marriage which he had been
pleased to contract Mr. Osborne ceases to consider him henceforth as a
member of his family. This determination is final and irrevocable."
Within a week of this epistle George Osborne and his wife, Dobbin,
Joseph Sedley, and the Rawdon Crawleys, were on their way to Brussels.
-III.--After Waterloo-
About three weeks after the 18th of June, Alderman Sir William Dobbin
called at Mr. Osborne's house in Russell Square, and insisted upon
seeing that gentleman. "My son," the Alderman said, with some
hesitation, "dispatched me a letter by an officer of the --th, who
arrived in town to-day. My son's letter contains one for you, Osborne."
The letter was in George's well-known bold handwriting. He had written
it before daybreak on the 16th of June, just before he took leave of
Amelia. The very seal that sealed it had been robbed from George's dead
body on the field of battle. The father knew nothing of this, but sat
and looked at the letter in terrified vacancy.
The poor boy's letter did not say much. He had been too proud to
acknowledge the tenderness which his heart felt. He only said that on
the eve of a great battle he wished to bid his father farewell, and
solemnly to implore his good offices for the wife--it might be for the
child--whom he had left behind. His English habit, pride, awkwardness,
perhaps, had prevented him from saying more. His father could not see
the kiss George had placed on the superscription of his letter. Mr.
Osborne dropped it with the bitterest, deadliest pang of balked
affection and revenge. His son was still beloved and unforgiven.
Two months afterwards an elaborate funeral monument to the memory of
Captain George Osborne appeared on the wall of the church which Mr.
Osborne attended, and in the autumn the old man went to Belgium.
George's widow was still in Brussels, and very many of the brave --th,
recovering of their wounds. The city was a vast military hospital for
months after the great battle.
Mr. Osborne made the journey of Waterloo and Quarter Bras soon after his
arrival, and his carriage, nearing the gates of the city at sunset, met
another open barouche by the side of which an officer was riding.
Osborne gave a start back, but Amelia, for it was she, though she stared
blank in his face did not know him. Her face was white and thin; her
eyes were fixed, and looked nowhere. Osborne saw who it was and hated
her--he did not know how much until he saw her there. Her carriage
passed on; a minute afterwards a horse came clattering over the pavement
behind Osborne's carriage, and Major Dobbin rode up.
"Mr. Osborne, Mr. Osborne!" cried Dobbin, while the other shouted to his
servant to drive on. "I will see you, sir; I have a message for you."
"From that woman?" said Osborne fiercely.
"No, from your son." At which Osborne fell back into his carriage and
Dobbin followed him to his hotel and up to his apartments.
"Make it short, sir," said Osborne, with an oath.
"I'm here as your son's closest friend," said the Major, "and the
executor of his will. Are you aware how small his means were, and of the
straitened circumstances of his widow? Do you know, sir, Mrs. Osborne's
condition? Her life and her reason almost have been shaken by the blow
which has fallen on her. She will be a mother soon. Will you visit the
parent's offence upon the child's head? Or will you forgive the child
for poor George's sake?"
Osborne broke into a rhapsody of self praise and imprecations. No father
in all England could have behaved more generously to a son who had
rebelled against him, and had died without even confessing he was wrong.
As for himself, he had sworn never to speak to that woman, or to
recognise her as his son's wife. "And that's what I will stick to till
the last day of my life," he concluded, with an oath.
There was no hope from that quarter then. The widow must live on her
slender pittance, or on such aid as Joseph could give her.
For six years Amelia did live on this pittance in shabby genteel poverty
with her boy and her parents in Fulham. Dobbin and Joseph Sedley were in
India now, and old Sedley, always speculating in bootless schemes, once
more brought ruin on his family.
Mr. Osborne had seen his grandson, and had formally offered to take the
boy and make him heir to the fortune intended for his father. He would
make Mrs. George Osborne an allowance, such as to assure her a decent
competency. But it must be understood that the child would live entirely
with his grandfather in Russell Square, and that he would be
occasionally permitted to see Mrs. George Osborne at her own residence.
At first Amelia rejected the offer with indignation. It was only on the
knowledge that her father, in his speculations, had made away with the
annuity from Joseph that poverty and misery made her capitulate. Her
own, pittance would barely enable her to support her parents, and would
not suffice for her son.
"What! Mrs. Pride has come down, has she?" old Osborne said when with a
tremulous, eager voice, Miss Osborne, the only unmarried daughter, read
him Amelia's letter.
"Regular starve out, hey? ha, ha! I knew she would." He tried to keep
his dignity, as he chuckled and swore to himself behind his paper.
"Get the room over mine--his room that was--ready. And you had better
send that woman some money," Mr. Osborne said before he went out. "She
shan't want for nothing. Send her a hundred pound. But she don't come in
here, mind. No, not for all the money in London."
A few days are past, and the great event of Amelia's life is
consummated. The child is sacrificed and offered up to fate, and the
widow is quite alone.
It was about this time when the Rawdon Crawleys, after contriving to
live well on nothing a year, for a considerable period, came to smash.
Rawdon retired to the Governorship of Coventry Island, a post procured
for him by the influence of that great nobleman the Marquis of Steyne,
and who cared what became of Becky? It was said she went to Naples.
Rawdon certainly declined to be reconciled to her, because of the money
she had received from Lord Steyne and which she had concealed from her
husband. "If she's not guilty, she's as bad as guilty; and I'll never
see her again--never," he said.
-IV.--Colonel Dobbin Leaves the Army-
Good fortune began to smile upon Amelia when Joseph Sedley, once more
came back to England, a rich man, and with him Major Dobbin. But the
round of decorous pleasure in which the Sedley family now indulged was
soon broken by Mrs. Sedley's death, and old Sedley was not long in
following his wife whither she had preceded him.
A change was coming over old Osborne's mind. He found that Major Dobbin
was a distinguished officer, and one day looking into his grandson's
accounts he learnt that it was out of William Dobbin's own pocket the
fund had been supplied upon which the poor widow and the child had
subsisted.
Then the pair shook hands, and after that the Major would often come and
dine at the gloomy old house in Russell Square. He tried to soften the
old man and reconcile him towards his son's memory, and more than once
Mr. Osborne asked him about Mrs. George Osborne. A reconciliation was
announced as speedy and inevitable, when one morning old Osborne was
found lying at the foot of his dressing-table in a fit. He never could
speak again and in four days he died.
When the will was opened, it was seen that half the property was left to
his grandson, George, and the remainder to two married daughters. An
annuity of £500 was left to "the widow of my beloved son, George
Osborne," who was to resume the guardianship of the boy, and "Major
William Dobbin, my beloved son's friend," was appointed executor.
That summer Major Dobbin and Joseph Sedley escorted the widow and her
boy to the Continent and at Pumpernickel, in a happy valley in Germany,
Joseph renewed acquaintance with Mrs. Rawdon Crawley, and after a long
and confidential talk was convinced that Becky was the most virtuous as
she was one of the most fascinating of women. Amelia was won over at the
tale of Becky's sufferings, but Major Dobbin was obdurate. Amelia
declined to give up Becky, and Major Dobbin said "good-bye."
Amelia didn't wish to marry him, but she wished to keep him, and his
departure left her broken and cast down. Becky bore Dobbin no rancour
for the part he had taken against her. It was an open move; she was in
the game and played fairly. She even admired him, and now that she was
in comfortable quarters, made no scruple of declaring her admiration for
the high-minded gentleman, and of telling Emmy that she had behaved most
cruelly regarding him.
From Pumpernickel Joseph and Amelia were persuaded to go to Ostend, and
here, while Becky was cut by scores of people, two ruffians, Major Loder
and Captain Rook, easily got an introduction to Mr. Joseph Sedley's
hospitable board.
Rebecca, to do her justice, never would let either of these men remain
alone with Amelia.
"Listen to me, Amelia," said Becky that same night; "you must go away
from here. You are no more fit to live in the world than a baby in arms.
You must marry or you and your precious boy will go to ruin. You must
have a husband, you fool; and one of the best gentlemen I ever saw has
offered you an hundred times, and you have ejected him, you silly,
heartless, ungrateful little creature!"
"I--I wrote to him this morning," Emmy said, blushing exceedingly.
Only George and his uncle were present at the marriage ceremony. Colonel
Dobbin quitted the service immediately after his marriage, and rented a
pretty little place in Hampshire, not far from Queen's Crawley.
His excellency Colonel Rawdon Crawley died of yellow fever at Coventry
Island, six weeks before the death of his brother Sir Pitt, who had
succeeded to the title.
Rebecca, Lady Crawley (so she called herself, though she never was
-Lady- Crawley) has a liberal allowance, and chiefly hangs about Bath
and Cheltenham, where a very strong party of excellent people consider
her a most injured woman.
Ah! -Vanitas Vanitatum-! which of us is happy in this world?
* * * * *
COUNT LYOF N. TOLSTOY
Anna Karenina
Lyof (Lev or Leo) Tolstoy (who objects to his name being
transliterated Tolstoi) is generally recognised as the noblest
figure in modern Russia. He was born on the family estate at
Yasnaya Polyana, in the Government of Tula, about 100 miles
south of Moscow, on August 28 (new style September 9), 1828.
His father, Count N.I. Tolstoy, who retired from the army
about the time of his son's birth, had been among the
prisoners taken by Napoleon's invading forces in the war of
1812. He died suddenly in 1837. Young Tolstoy after three
years at Kazan University decided to abandon his college
studies without graduating, so repelled was he by the degraded
character of the average student. Retiring to his estate at
Yasnaya Polyana in 1847, he sought, though without success, to
ameliorate the condition of his serfs. The Imperial decree of
emancipation was not promulgated till 1861. In 1851 Count
Tolstoy joined the army in the Caucasus, and shortly
afterwards he participated in the defence of Sebastopol during
the great Crimean War. Since that period his life has been a
wonderful career of literary success. On his fine estate, with
his large family and his servants about him, he lives the life
of a simple peasant, advocating a form of socialism which he
considers to constitute a practical interpretation of the
Sermon on the Mount. In "Anna Karenina" Tolstoy manifestly
aims at furnishing an elaborate delineation of the
sociological ethics of high life in Russia. It is a lurid and
sombre recital, of the most realistic kind. It is not a story
of the masses, for no prominent characters from lower life
appear. Little is seen of the ways and doings of the poor. All
the real personages of this story are members of the
fashionable section of St. Petersburg and Moscow, or are great
landed proprietors, or high officials. In these pages appear
some of the noblest and some of the most profligate
characters, and all are perfectly typical. As in all the
writings of Tolstoy, wit and humour are entirely lacking, but
the emotionalism is intense, the psychological analysis is
masterly, and the fidelity to actual conditions is scrupulous.
The tale is a moral one, written with a purpose that is
consistently pursued throughout. Sin is displayed without a
mask, and its retribution is shown to be inevitable. There is
no attempt at varnishing or veneering the surface of a lax
moral order. The idea prevails among critics that Tolstoy
himself appears in this novel under the character of Levin.
(See also Vol. X, p. 291.)
-I-
The Oblonsky family was plunged into miserable confusion, for the wife,
through detecting a flirtation between her husband and the French
governess, declared she would no longer live with him. She remained in
her rooms, and the husband had not shown himself at home for three days.
Some of the servants quarrelled and others demanded their wages.
Prince Stepan Arkadyevitch (socially styled Stiva) had on returning one
evening from the theatre found his Dolly sitting with a letter in her
hand, and an expression of terror and despair on her countenance. "What
is this? This?" she asked. Instead of attempting a reply, Stepan smiled
good-humouredly and stupidly; and Dolly, after a flow of passionate
reproaches, rushed from the room.
Stepan had never imagined that any such discovery would have such an
effect on his wife. "How delightfully we were living till this
happened!" said he, as on the third morning after the outbreak he awoke
in his library, where he had rested on the lounge. "I never interfered
with Dolly, and she did as she pleased with the household and children.
What can be done?" He rose and put on his dressing gown and rang for his
valet, who came in response to the summons, followed by the barber. The
valet handed him a telegram, which announced that his loving sister,
Anna Arkadyevna, was coming on a visit. He was pleased to receive the
intelligence, for it might mean that she would effect a reconciliation.
Prince Stepan tranquilly partook of breakfast over his newspaper, and
became absorbed in thought. Suddenly two children's voices roused him
from his reverie. They were those of Grisha, his youngest boy, and
Tania, his eldest daughter. The little girl, his favourite, ran in and
laughingly and fondly embraced him. "What is mamma doing? Is she all
right?" he asked of the girl.
"I don't know," was the reply. "She told us we were not to have lessons
to-day but were to go to grandmamma's." He told the children to run
along, and then said to himself, "To go, or not to go--but it has to be
done, sooner or later," and straightening himself and lighting a
cigarette, he opened the door into his wife's room. She was standing in
the room removing the contents of a drawer, and turned her worn face on
Stepan with a look of terror. She had dreaded this moment, for though
she felt she could not stay, yet she knew she loved him and that it was
impossible to leave him.
"What do you want? Go away, go away," she cried. He broke into sobs and
began to beg forgiveness. "Dolly, think for the love of God of the
children. They are not to blame. I alone am to blame. Now, Dolly,
forgive me." But as the voice of one of the children was heard, she went
out from him and slammed the door.
-II-
Stepan Arkadyevitch was naturally idle, yet his natural gifts had
enabled him to do well at school, and he had gained an excellent
position at Moscow as -natchalnik-, or president of one of the courts,
through the influence of Aleksei Alexandrovitch Karenin, husband of his
sister Anna, one of the most important members of the ministry. In this
office Stepan enjoyed a salary of 6,000 roubles. Everyone who knew
Oblonsky liked him, for his amiability, honesty, and brilliance,
qualities which rendered him a most attractive character.
Going to his office after his unpleasant interview with his wife, he
attended to matters in the court for some time, and on suspending
business for lunch found his friend Levin waiting to see him--a
fair-complexioned, broad-shouldered man whom he often saw in Moscow.
Levin frequently came in from the country, full of enthusiasm about
great things he had been attempting, at the reports of which Stepan was
apt to smile in his good-humoured style. That Levin was in love with his
sister Kitty was well enough known to Stepan.
When Oblonsky on this occasion, after chatting over some rural concerns
in Levin's district, asked his friend what had specially brought him to
Moscow, Levin blushed and was vexed with himself for blushing. He could
not bring himself to reply that he had come to ask for the hand of
Stepan's sister-in-law Kitty, though that was really his errand. As a
student and a friend of the Shcherbatsky family, belonging like his own
to the old nobility of Moscow, Konstantin Levin at first thought himself
in love with Dolly, the eldest, but she married Oblonsky; then with
Natalie, who married Lyof, a diplomat; and finally his passion settled
on Kitty, who had been only a child when he left the University. He was
now thirty-two, was wealthy, would surely have been reckoned an
acceptable suitor, but had a most exalted opinion of Kitty, and to a
corresponding degree depreciated himself.
He feared that probably Kitty did not love him, and he knew that his
friends only looked upon him as a country proprietor, occupied with
farming, or amusing himself with hunting. He was not what is understood
as a society man. But he felt that he could no longer rest without
seeking to get the question settled whether she would or would not be
his wife.
-III-
Levin made his way to the gate of the Zoological Gardens and followed
the path to the ice-mountains, where he knew that he should find the
Shcherbatskys there, Kitty among them. He had seen their carriage at the
gate. It was a lovely day, and the gaily-clad fashionable people, the
Russian -izbas- with their carved woodwork, the paths gleaming with
snow, and the old birch-trees, brilliant with icicles, combined to
render the whole scene one of fascination.
Drawing near the ice-mountains, where the sledges rushed down the
inclines, he soon discovered Kitty, who was on the opposite side,
standing in close conversation with a lady. For him her presence filled
the place with light and glory. He asked himself whether he was brave
enough to go and meet her on the ice. The spot where she was seemed to
him like a sanctuary, and all the persons privileged to be near her
seemed to be the elect of heaven. This day the ice was the common
meeting-ground for fashionable people, the masters in the art of skating
being among them. Nikolai Shcherbatsky, Kitty's cousin, catching sight
of Levin, exclaimed, "There is the best skater in Russia." Kitty
cordially invited Levin to skate with her. He did so, and the faster
they went together, the closer Kitty held his hand. And when after a
spin they rested, and she asked how long he was going to stay in St.
Petersburg, he astonished her by replying, "It depends on you." Either
she did not understand, or did not wish to understand, his words, for
she at once made an excuse to leave him.
At this moment Stepan came up and took Levin's arm, and the two went to
the restaurant. Here Levin opened his soul to Stepan, and Stepan assured
him that Kitty would become his wife. "But," said Levin, "it is shocking
that we who are already getting old dare not approach a pure and
innocent being. I look on my life with dismay, and mourn over it
bitterly."
Said Stepan, "You have not much cause for self-reproach. What can you
do? The world is thus constituted."
"There is only one comfort," replied Levin. "That is in the prayer I
have always delighted in: 'Pardon me not according to my deserts, but
according to Thy loving kindness.' Thus only can she forgive me."
-IV-
Kitty had another suitor, Count Vronsky, on whom she looked with the
favour that she could not accord to Levin. He was rich, intelligent, of
good birth, with a brilliant career before him in court and navy. He was
charming, and in him the Princess Shcherbatsky saw an admirable match
for her youngest daughter. Princess Kitty was now eighteen. She was the
favourite child of her father. It was manifest to both parents that she
was in love with Vronsky. Yet when at length Levin ventured on an actual
declaration of his love, she was deeply agitated. Lifting her sincere
glance to him, she said hastily, "This cannot be. Forgive me."
Anna Karenina arrived in the home of Stepan Arkadyevitch, where she was
received with cordial kisses by Dolly, who remembered that Stepan's
sister was not to blame, and that she was a -grande dame- of St.
Petersburg, wife of one of the important personages of the city. She was
delighted to think that at last she could open her mind and tell her
troubles. And she was not disappointed, for in a lengthy and sympathetic
colloquy Dolly's heart was touched with the sentiment of forgiveness.
Anna was one of the most beautiful and graceful of women. And she was as
tactful as she was lovely. Before many hours she had successfully played
the part of peacemaker, and thanked God in her heart that she had been
able to effect complete reconciliation between Stepan and his wife. That
same evening Anna went to a grand ball with Kitty and her mother, where
the three were quickly saluted by Vronsky. It was a most brilliant
affair. But next morning Anna telegraphed to her husband that she was
leaving Moscow for home. It happened that Vronsky travelled by the same
train, and thus the two were thrown together for the long journey.
-V-
Aleksei Alexandrovitch, though he affectionately met his wife, found but
little time to spend with her. The next day several visitors came to
dine with the Karenins. Every moment of Aleksei's life was fully
occupied with his official duties, and he was forced to be strictly
regular and punctual in his arrangements. He was an excellent man, and
an intellectual one, delighting in art, poetry, and music, and loving to
talk of Shakespeare, Raphael, and Beethoven.
Society in St. Petersburg is very united, and Anna Karenina had very
friendly relations with the gay world of fashion, with its dinner
parties and balls. She met Vronsky at several of these brilliant
reunions. He, deeply impressed with her, notwithstanding his connection
with Kitty, went everywhere that he was likely to meet her, and her joy
at meeting him easily betrayed itself in her eyes and her smile. And he
did not refrain from actually making love to Anna on the occasions when
they were able to engage in tête-à-tête conversations. Nor was he
positively repelled. Soon the acquaintance became more and more
intimate. Meantime, Aleksei as usual would come home and, instead of
seeking his wife's society, would bury himself in his library amongst
his books. But suddenly the idea that his wife could form an attachment
to another man filled him with terror. He resolved to remonstrate with
her, but she received his expostulations with laughing and good-humoured
mockery, which entirely frustrated his purpose. He dropped the subject;
yet from that moment a new life began for the husband and wife. There
was no outward sign of the change. Anna continued to meet Vronsky, and
Aleksei felt himself powerless to intervene.
While Vronsky was thus entangling himself with Anna Karenina at St.
Petersburg, the Shcherbatskys at Moscow were growing anxious about the
health of Princess Kitty, their beautiful daughter who was so deeply in
love with him. She was ill, and after a consultation of physicians it
was decided that travelling abroad would be advisable. But the girl said
to herself that her trouble was one that they could not fathom, that her
supposed illness and the remedies she had to endure were nonsense. What
did they amount to? Nothing more than the gathering up of the fragments
of a broken vase to patch it up again. Her heart was broken, and could
it be healed by pills and powders?
-VI-
Absorbed by his passion, Vronsky yet proceeded in his regular manner of
life, sustaining as usual his social and military relations. He loved
his regiment and was very popular in it. Naturally, he spoke not a
syllable to anyone about his passion. He drank moderately, and not an
indiscreet word escaped him. But his mother was not a little disturbed
when she discovered that his infatuation for Madame Karenina had
impelled him to refuse an excellent promotion which would have
necessitated his removal from the metropolis. She feared that instead of
being a flirtation of which she might not disapprove, this passion might
develop into a Werther-like tragedy and lead her son to commit some
imprudence.
Many fashionable young ladies who were jealous of Anna and were weary of
hearing her praised, were malignantly pleased to hear rumours to her
disparagement and to feel justified in alluding scornfully to her.
Vronsky received a message from his mother in Moscow. She desired him to
come to her. His elder brother, though not himself by any means a
pattern of perfect propriety, strongly expressed his dissatisfaction,
because he felt that the unpleasant rumours would be likely to cause
displeasure in certain high quarters.
Early in the spring, Anna Karenina's husband went abroad, according to
his annual custom, to take the water-cure after the toils of winter.
Returning in July to St. Petersburg, he at once resumed his official
duties with the usual vigour. Anna had already gone into the country,
not far from the capital, to the summer -datcha- at Peterhof. Since the
pair had failed to come to a mutual understanding coolness had existed,
but it was simply a cloud, not an actual alienation.
He resolved for the sake of appearances to visit his wife once a week.
To his astonishment, his doctor called voluntarily on him, to ask if he
might examine into the condition of his health. The secret reason of
this was that a kind friend, the Countess Lidia, had begged the doctor
to do so, as she had noticed that Aleksei did not look well. The medical
man after the diagnosis was perturbed with the result, for Aleksei's
liver was congested and his digestion was out of order. The waters had
not benefited him. He was ordered to take more physical exercise and to
undergo less mental strain, and above all to avoid all worry.
It was not with real pleasure, but with an affectation of cordiality
that Anna received her husband when he reached the -datcha-. She was gay
and animated. He was somewhat constrained, and the conversation was
without any special interest. But Anna afterwards could only recall it
with real pain. The crisis came on a racecourse. One of Vronsky's chief
pleasures was horse-racing, and at the brilliant races that season he
himself rode his own splendid horse. But the occasion was a most
disastrous one, for at the hurdle races more than half the riders were
thrown, Vronsky being one of them. He was picked up uninjured, but the
horse had its back broken.
Aleksei and his wife and several friends were amongst the gay crowd, and
he noted with deep displeasure that his wife turned pale when the
accident happened and was strangely excited throughout the occasion. In
the carriage, as the pair returned, he taxed her with her unseemly
demeanour, and a violent quarrel ensued, in which she exclaimed, "I love
him. I fear you. I hate you. Do as you please with me." And Anna flung
herself to the bottom of the carriage, covering her face with her hands
and sobbing convulsively.
Aleksei sat in silence during the rest of the journey home, but as they
came near the house he said, "I insist that from this moment appearances
be preserved for the sake of my honour, and I will communicate my
decision to you after I have considered what measures I shall take." He
assisted her to alight at the -datcha-, shook hands with her in the
presence of the servants, and returned to St. Petersburg.
"Thank God, it is all over between us," said Anna to herself. But,
notwithstanding this reflection, she had felt strangely impressed by the
aspect of deathlike rigidity in her husband's face, though he gave no
sign of inward agitation. As he rode off alone he felt a keen pain in
his heart. But, curiously enough, he also experienced a sensation of
deep relief of soul now that a vast load of doubt and jealousy had been
lifted from him.
"I always knew she was without either heart or religion," said he to
himself. "I made a mistake when I united my life with hers, but I should
not be unhappy, for my error was not my fault. Henceforth for me she
does not exist." He pondered over the problem whether he should
challenge Vronsky, but he soon decided against the idea of fighting a
duel. No one would expect it of him, so his reputation would not be
injured by abstaining from such a proceeding. At length he came to the
conclusion that an open separation would not be expedient and that the
-status quo- alone was advisable, on the condition that Anna should obey
his will and break off her acquaintance with Vronsky.
"Only thus," thought Aleksei, "can I conform to the requirements of
religion. I give her another chance, and consecrate my powers to her
salvation." He wrote his wife a letter saying that for his own sake, for
her sake, and the sake of her son, their lives must remain unchanged,
the family must not be sacrificed, and as he was sure she felt penitent,
he hoped at their next interview to come to a complete understanding.
Though, when she received this communication, Anna felt her anger
rising, yet her heart told her that she was in a false position from
which she longed to escape. A new sensation had taken possession of her
soul, and she seemed to be a double kind of personality. At length,
after long agitation she wrote to her husband, telling him that she
could no longer remain in his house, but was going away, taking their
boy Serosha with her. "Be generous; let me have him," were the last
words in the letter. She wrote a little note to Vronsky, but her cheeks
burned as she wrote, and presently she tore the note to tatters. Then
she made her preparations for going to Moscow.
-VII-
Anna returned to the home in St. Petersburg. Husband and wife met with a
silent greeting, and the silence lasted some time. Then ensued an
interview in which each side coldly accused the other, but which ended
in Aleksei's demand that his wife should so comport herself that neither
the world nor the servants could accuse her, on which condition she
could enjoy the position and fulfil the duties of an honourable wife.
And so the Kareninas continued to live in the same house, to meet daily,
and yet to remain strangers to each other. Vronsky was never seen near
the place, yet Anna met him elsewhere and Aleksei knew it.
Meanwhile, a change was coming over the prospect for Kitty and Levin. He
had never renounced the hope of possessing the beautiful girl, and at
length she had come to understand his nobility of character and to feel
that she could reciprocate his affection. During a conversation with
her, he watched as she mechanically drew circles with chalk on the
table-cloth.
"I have waited for a long time to ask you a question," said he, looking
fondly at her.
"What is it?" said Kitty.
"This is it," said Levin, taking the chalk and writing the letters w, y,
s, i, i, i, w, i, i, t, o, a? The letters were the initials of the
words, "When you said 'It is impossible,' was it impossible then, or
always?"
Kitty studied the letters long and attentively, and at length took the
chalk and, blushing deeply, wrote the letters: t, I, c, n, a, d. Levin's
face soon beamed with joy. He comprehended that the reply was: "Then I
could not answer differently." Everything was settled. Kitty had
acknowledged her love for him, and Levin at last was happy.
-VIII-
Aleksei sat alone in his room, pondering events, when he was startled by
a telegram from his wife--"I am dying. I beg you to come; I shall die
easier if I have your forgiveness." He read the words with momentary
scorn, imagining that some scheme of deceit was being practised. But
presently he reflected that it might be true, and, if so, it would be
cruel and foolish to refuse to go, and besides, everybody would blame
him.
He travelled all night and arrived, tired and dusty, in the morning at
St. Petersburg. Reaching his house, he went into the drawing-room, and
the nurse quickly led him into the bedroom, saying, "Thank God, you have
come. She talks only of you."
"Bring ice at once," the doctor's voice was heard saying. Aleksei was
startled to see in the boudoir, seated on a low chair, Vronsky, weeping
with his hands over his face. And the latter was startled in turn as,
disturbed by the doctor's words, he looked up and caught sight of the
husband. He rose and seemed desiring to disappear, but with an evident
effort said, "She is dying and the doctors say there is no hope. I am in
your power, but allow me to stay and I will conform to your wishes."
Aleksei turned without replying and went to the door. Anna was talking
clearly and gaily. Her cheeks were bright and her eyes gleamed. Rattling
on incoherently, she suddenly recognised her husband, and looking
terrified, raised her hands as if to avert a blow; but she said the next
moment, "No, no, I am not afraid of him, I am afraid of dying. Aleksei,
I have but a few moments to live. Soon the fever will return and I shall
know nothing more, but now I understand everything. There is another
being in me, who loved him and hated you, but now I am my real self. But
no, you cannot forgive me. Go away, you are too good."
With one burning hand she pushed him away, with the other she held him.
Aleksei's emotion became uncontrollable. His soul was filled with love
and forgiveness. Kneeling by the bed, he sobbed like a child. The
doctors said that there was not one chance in a hundred of her living.
Vronsky returned to his home in an agony of soul. He tried in vain to
sleep. Visions of the faces of Aleksei and Anna rose before him.
Suddenly his brain seemed to receive a shock. He rose, paced the room,
went to the table, took from it a revolver, which he examined and
loaded. Presently he held it to his breast and without flinching pulled
the trigger. The blow knocked him down, but he had failed to kill
himself The valet, who had heard the report, ran in, but was so
frightened at the sight of his master lying on the floor wounded that he
rushed out again for help. In an hour came Varia, Vronsky's
sister-in-law, who sent for three doctors. They managed to put the
wounded man to bed, and Varia stayed to nurse him.
-IX-
Vronsky's wound, though the heart was not touched, was so dangerous that
for several days his life was in the balance. But gradually the crisis
passed, and as he recovered he felt calmed with the conviction that he
had now effected redemption from his faults. He accepted without
hesitation an appointment to a position in Tashkend. But the nearer the
time came, the more irrepressible grew the desire to see Anna for a
farewell. He sent her a message, and she waited for his coming. The
visit was fatal. Anna had made up her mind what to say, but the presence
of Vronsky instantly overcame her resolution, and when she could find
words she said, "Yes, you have conquered me. I am yours."
A month later Aleksei was left alone with his son, and Anna went abroad
with Vronsky.
The marriage of Levin and Kitty was a brilliant occasion. A difficulty
for Levin before the marriage was the necessity of attending confession.
Like the majority of his fellows in society, he cherished no decided
views on religion. He did not believe, nor did he positively disbelieve.
But there could be no wedding without a certificate of confession. To
the priest he frankly acknowledged his doubts, that doubt was his chief
sin, that he was nearly always in doubt. But the gentle and kindly
priest exhorted him to cultivate the practice of prayer, and then
pronounced the formula of absolution.
In presence of a great assembly the wedding took place. The same priest
who had heard the confession ministered for the marriage. He handed to
each of the couple a lighted candle decorated with flowers. The chanting
of an invisible choir resounded richly through the church, and when the
liturgy was finished, the solemn benediction was read over the bridal
pair. It was a great event in the fashionable world of Moscow.
-X-
Anna and Vronsky had been travelling for three months in Europe. As for
Anna, she had revelled in the exuberance of her freedom from a
disagreeable past, the events of which seemed like some frightful
nightmare. She appeased her conscience to some extent by saying to
herself: "I have done my husband an irreparable injury, but I also
suffer, and I shall suffer." The prediction was soon fulfilled. Vronsky
soon began to feel dissatisfied. He grew weary of lack of occupation in
foreign cities for sixteen hours a day. Life soon became intolerable in
little Italian cities, and Anna, though astonished at this speedy
disillusionment, agreed to return to Russia and to spend the summer on
his estate. They travelled home, but neither of them was happy. Vronsky
perceived that Anna was in a strange state of mind, evidently tormented
by something which she made no attempt to explain. By degrees she, on
her part, realized that Vronsky was willing to absent himself from her
society on various excuses. Quarrels became frequent, and at length
alienation was complete.
* * * * *
A tragedy happened on the railway. A woman went along the platform of
the station and walked off on to the line. Like a madman a short time
afterwards Vronsky rushed into the barracks where Anna's body had been
carried. Her head was untouched, with its heavy braids of hair and light
curls gathered about the temples. Her eyes were half closed and her lips
were slightly opened as if she was about to speak, and to repeat the
last words she had uttered to him: "You will repent."
The war with Turkey had broken out, and Vronsky, disgusted with his
whole life, left for Servia.
* * * * *
ANTHONY TROLLOPE
The Warden
Few English men of letters have had an unhappier childhood
than Anthony Trollope. Born in London on April 24, 1815, his
home was made sordid by his father's misfortunes, and at
Harrow and Winchester, where he was for nearly eleven years,
his mean appearance subjected him to many dire humiliations. A
final catastrophe in the fortunes of the elder Trollope drove
the family to Belgium, where Anthony for a time acted as usher
in a school at Brussels. But at the age of nineteen a
Post-office appointment brought him back to London. The
turning point in his career came in 1841, when he accepted the
position of a cleric to one of the surveyors in the West of
England. Here he developed an extraordinary energy and
ability, and it was during this time, in 1847, that he
published his first novel, "The Macdermots of Ballycloran."
"The Warden," published in 1855, was the first and in many
ways the best of the famous six Barsetshire series that caused
Trollope to attract the notice of the reading public. Henry
James says, "'The Warden' is simply the history of an old
man's conscience, and Trollope never did anything happier than
the picture of this sweet and serious little old gentleman."
The book is regarded as Trollope's masterpiece.
-I.--Hiram's Hospital-
The Rev. Septimus Harding was a beneficed clergyman residing in the
cathedral town of Barchester.
Mr. Harding had married early in life, and was the father of two
daughters. The elder, Susan, had been married some twelve years since to
the Rev. Dr. Theophilus Grantly, son of the bishop, archdeacon of
Barchester, and rector of Plumstead Episcopi, and a few months after her
marriage her father became precentor of Barchester Cathedral. The
younger daughter, Eleanor, was twenty-four years of age.
Now there are peculiar circumstances connected with the precentorship
which must be explained. In the year 1434 there died at Barchester one
John Hiram, who had made money in the town as a wool-stapler, and in his
will he left the house in which he died and certain meadows and closes
near the town for the support of twelve superannuated wool-carders; he
also appointed that an alms-house should be built for their abode, with
a fitting residence for a warden, which warden was also to receive a
certain sum annually out of the rents of the said meadows and closes.
He, moreover, willed that the precentor of the cathedral should have the
option of being also warden of the alms-house, if the bishop approved.
From that day to this the charity had gone on and prospered--at least,
the charity had gone on, and the estates had prospered. The bedesmen
received one shilling and fourpence a day and a comfortable lodging. The
stipend of the precentor was £80 a year. The income arising from the
wardenship of the hospital was £800, besides the value of the house.
Murmurs had been heard in Barchester--few indeed and far between--that
the proceeds of John Hiram's property had not been fairly divided; the
thing had been whispered, and Mr. Harding had heard it. And Mr. Harding,
being an open-handed, just-minded man, had, on his instalment, declared
his intention of adding twopence a day to each man's pittance.
Mr. Harding was a small man, now verging on sixty years. His warmest
admirers could not say that he had ever been an industrious man; the
circumstances of his life had not called on him to so; and yet he could
hardly be called an idler. He had greatly improved the choir of
Barchester, and taken something more than his fair share in the
cathedral services. He was generous to all, but especially to the twelve
old men who were under his care. With an income of £800 a year and only
one daughter, Mr. Harding should have been above the world, but he was
not above Archdeacon Grantly, and was always more or less in debt to his
son-in-law, who had to a certain extent assumed the management of the
precentor's pecuniary affairs.
Mr. Harding had been precentor of Barchester for ten years when the
murmurs respecting the proceeds of Hiram's estate again became audible.
He was aware that two of his old men had been heard to say that if
everyone had his own, they might each have their hundred pounds a year,
and live like gentlemen, instead of a beggarly one shilling and sixpence
a day. One of this discontented pair, Abel Handy, had been put into the
hospital by Mr. Harding himself; he had been a stonemason in Barchester,
and had broken his thigh by a fall from a scaffolding. (Dr. Grantly had
been very anxious to put into it instead an insufferable clerk of his at
Plumstead, who had lost all his teeth, and whom the archdeacon hardly
knew how to get rid of by other means.) There was living at Barchester a
young man, a surgeon, named John Bold, and both Mr. Harding and Dr.
Grantly were well aware that to him was owing the pestilent rebellious
feeling which had shown itself in the hospital; and the renewal, too, of
that disagreeable talk about Hiram's estates which was again prevalent
in Barchester. Nevertheless, Mr. Harding and Mr. Bold were acquainted
with each other, and were friends in spite of the great disparity in
their years; for John Bold--whose father had been a physician in London,
who had bought property in Barchester and retired to die there--was not
more than twenty-seven years old at this time.
John Bold was a clever man, but, having enough to live on since his
father's death, he had not been forced to work for bread. In three years
he had not taken three fees, but he frequently bound up the bruises and
set the limbs of such of the poorer classes as professed his way of
thinking. Bold was a strong reformer. His passion was the reform of all
abuses, and he was thoroughly sincere in his patriotic endeavours to
mend mankind. No wonder that Dr. Grantly regarded Bold as a firebrand
and a demagogue, and would have him avoided as the plague. But the old
Doctor and Mr. Harding had been fast friends and young Johnny Bold used
to play as a boy on Mr. Harding's lawn.
Eleanor Harding had not plighted her troth to John Bold, but she could
not endure that anyone should speak harshly of him; she cared little to
go to houses where she would not meet him, and, in fact, she was in
love. Nor was there any reason why Eleanor Harding should not love John
Bold. His character was in all respects good; he had sufficient income
to support a wife, and, above all, he was in love with her. Mr. Harding
himself saw no reason why his daughter should not love John Bold.
-II.--The Barchester Reformer-
Bold had often expressed his indignation at the misappropriation of
church funds in general, in the hearing of his friend the precentor, but
the conversation had never referred to anything at Barchester.
He heard from different quarters that Hiram's bedesmen were treated as
paupers, whereas the property to which they were, in effect, heirs, was
very large, and being looked on as the upholder of the rights of the
poor of Barchester, he was instigated by a lawyer, whom he had
previously employed, to call upon Mr. Chadwick, the steward of the
episcopal estates, for a statement as to the funds of the estate.
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332
333
334
335
336
.
337
338
339
340
341
342
(
)
(
343
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344
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345
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(
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347
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349
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350
.
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351
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365
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384
(
.
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385
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391
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394
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395
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(
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397
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400
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512
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851
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864
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1000