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exactly how they did look at it, both he and they would have been
greatly puzzled to answer.
In reality, those who in Vronsky’s opinion had the “proper” view
had no sort of view at all, but behaved in general as well-bred persons
do behave in regard to all the complex and insoluble problems with
which life is encompassed on all sides; they behaved with propriety,
avoiding allusions and unpleasant questions. They assumed an air of
fully comprehending the import and force of the situation, of accepting
and even approving of it, but of considering it superfluous and un-
called for to put all this into words.
Vronsky at once divined that Golenishtchev was of this class, and
therefore was doubly pleased to see him. And in fact, Golenishtchev’s
manner to Madame Karenina, when he was taken to call on her, was all
that Vronsky could have desired. Obviously without the slightest ef-
fort he steered clear of all subjects which might lead to embarrassment.
He had never met Anna before, and was struck by her beauty, and
still more by the frankness with which she accepted her position. She
blushed when Vronsky brought in Golenishtchev, and he was ex-
tremely charmed by this childish blush overspreading her candid and
handsome face. But what he liked particularly was the way in which at
once, as though on purpose that there might be no misunderstanding
with an outsider, she called Vronsky simply Alexey, and said they were
moving into a house they had just taken, what was here called a palazzo.
Golenishtchev liked this direct and simple attitude to her own position.
Looking at Anna’s manner of simple-hearted, spirited gaiety, and know-
ing Alexey Alexandrovitch and Vronsky, Golenishtchev fancied that
he understood her perfectly. He fancied that he understood what she
was utterly unable to understand: how it was that, having made her
husband wretched, having abandoned him and her son and lost her
good name, she yet felt full of spirits, gaiety, and happiness.
“It’s in the guide-book,” said Golenishtchev, referring to the palazzo
Vronsky had taken. “There’s a first-rate Tintoretto there. One of his
latest period.”
“I tell you what: it’s a lovely day, let’s go and have another look at
it,” said Vronsky, addressing Anna.
“I shall be very glad to; I’ll go and put on my hat. Would you say
it’s hot?” she said, stopping short in the doorway and looking inquir-
ingly at Vronsky. And again a vivid flush overspread her face.
Vronsky saw from her eyes that she did not know on what terms he
cared to be with Golenishtchev, and so was afraid of not behaving as
he would wish.
He looked a long, tender look at her.
“No, not very,” he said.
And it seemed to her that she understood everything, most of all,
that he was pleased with her; and smiling to him, she walked with her
rapid step out at the door.
The friends glanced at one another, and a look of hesitation came
into both faces, as though Golenishtchev, unmistakably admiring her,
would have liked to say something about her, and could not find the
right thing to say, while Vronsky desired and dreaded his doing so.
“Well then,” Vronsky began to start a conversation of some sort;
“so you’re settled here? You’re still at the same work, then?” he went on,
recalling that he had been told Golenishtchev was writing something.
“Yes, I’m writing the second part of the Two Elements,” said
Golenishtchev, coloring with pleasure at the question—”that is, to be
exact, I am not writing it yet; I am preparing, collecting materials. It will
be of far wider scope, and will touch on almost all questions. We in
Russia refuse to see that we are the heirs of Byzantium,” and he