178 179
him across the room to his study. “What are you reading now?” she
asked.
“Just now I’m reading Duc de Likke, Poesie des Enfers,” he an-
swered. “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 a 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, Alexey
Alexandrovitch 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, Alexey Alexandrovitch 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, Raphael, 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 arm-
chair. “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 remark-
able 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 writ-
ing table, finishing a letter to Dolly, she heard the sound of measured
steps in slippers, and Alexey Alexandrovitch, freshly washed and
combed, with a book under his arm, came in to 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 Alexey Alexandrovitch.
Undressing, she went into the 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.