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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 Tverskaya, who, hearing of her return, had invited her,
nor to the theater, where she had a box for that evening. She did not go
out principally because the dress she had reckoned upon was not
ready. Altogether, Anna, on turning, 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 nurs-
ery, 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 him.
He kissed her hand and sat down beside her.
“Altogether then, I see your 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 Vronskaya, 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 Alexey Alexandrovitch severely.
Anna smiled. She knew that he said that simply to show that
family considerations could not prevent him from expressing his genu-
ine opinion. She knew that characteristic in her husband, and liked it.
“I am glad it has all ended so satisfactorily, And that you are back
again,” he went on. “Come, what do they say about the new act I have
got passed in the council?”
Anna had heard nothing of this act, And she felt conscience-stricken
at having been able so readily to forget what was to him of such impor-
tance.
“Here, on the other hand, it has made a great sensation,” he said,
with a complacent smile.
She saw that Alexey Alexandrovitch 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 the 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, Alexey
Alexandrovitch got up, and was going towards his study.
“And 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