Only then did she summon the courage to speak, in whispered tones, of the great secret that lay between them: their mutual knowledge of the nascent resistance to the so-called New Russia. “How is it that you and Anna have returned to society?” In the urgency of her whisper was communicated her hope and expectation that the amnesty request was a gambit, a cover story, and that Vronsky was in Moscow for the same reason as Levin: awaiting the chance to move against the Ministry.
“Anna Arkadyevna and I wish only to make amends for our ill-considered transgressions,” he pronounced, loudly enough for Princess Borissovna to hear. The old woman nodded her approval. “We have therefore cashiered our Class Ills in accordance with the law, and appealed to Minister Karenin for amnesty. I have many skills, of course, that could be put to use in the service of the New Russia.”
Kitty could not determine whether Vronsky was playing false, for the old princess’s benefit, or whether his contrition was sincere. As always in the past, Count Vronsky remained a mystery.
On the way home, she was grateful to her father for saying nothing to her about their meeting Vronsky, but she saw by his special warmth to her after the visit during their usual walk that he was pleased with her. She was pleased with herself. She had not expected she would have had the power, while keeping somewhere in the bottom of her heart all the memories of her old feeling for Vronsky, not only to be perfectly indifferent and composed with him, but to do her best to sound out the depth of his loyalties.
Levin flushed a great deal more than she when she told him she had met Vronsky at Princess Marya Borissovna’s. It was very hard for her to tell him this, but still harder to go on speaking of the details of the meeting, as he did not question her, but simply gazed at her with a frown.
Her truthful eyes told Levin that she was satisfied with herself, and in spite of her blushing he was quickly reassured and began questioning her, which was all she wanted. When he had heard that she was just as direct and as much at her ease as with any chance acquaintance, Levin was quite happy and said he was glad of it.
“But there is more,” she added. “More that we must discuss, relating to our Golden Hope.”
They leaned their heads together, as much co-conspirators as husband and wife, to ponder the difficulties that Kitty’s new information posed. If Count Vronsky had truly abandoned his rebellious posture, surely this raised the danger that he would report to the Ministry what he knew about Kitty and Levin and their secrets.
“I will seek an opportunity to speak directly to Vronsky, and then, together, you and I shall discuss what to do,” Levin replied, emphasizing the word “together,” as if to affirm to Kitty his belief that she had handled herself perfectly in this situation.
“I miss my beloved-companion,” Kitty sighed.
“And I, mine, my love. And I, mine.”
CHAPTER 2
THE FOLLOWING NIGHT, Levin reached the club just at the right time. Members and visitors were driving up as he arrived. Levin had not been at the club for a very long while-not since he lived in Moscow, when he was leaving the university and going into society. He remembered the club, the external details of its arrangement, but he had completely forgotten the impression it had made on him in the old days. But as soon as he drove into the wide, semicircular court and got out of the sledge; as soon as he saw in the porter’s room the cloaks and galoshes of members who thought it less trouble to take them off downstairs; as soon as he heard the I/Bell/6 that tolled three times behind its semi-transparent panel to announce him, as he ascended the easy, carpeted staircase, and saw the slow rotation of the glittering I/Statue/9 on the landing, unobtrusively identity-confirming each arriving guest, Levin felt the old impression of the club come back in a rush, an impression of repose, comfort, and propriety.
The difference, of course, was that in the old days the picture included dozens of Class IIs. Tonight there was no drone of busy motors, no dull hum of mechanical servitude. No II/Butler/97 politely removed his hat with careful end-effectors; no II/Porter/6 asked his name at the door and announced it with a Vox-Em flourish when he entered the main hall. Instead a fat and surly peasant in an ill-fitting vest grunted and gestured with a rude thumb to the staircase.
Passing through the outer hall, divided up by screens, and the room partitioned on the right, where a man sat at the fruit buffet, Levin overtook an old man walking slowly in, and entered the dining room full of noise and people.
He walked along the tables, almost all full, and looked at the visitors. He saw people of all sorts, old and young; some he knew a little, some intimate friends. Despite all of society’s convulsions, he did not see a single cross or worried-looking face. All seemed to have left their cares and anxieties downstairs with their hats, and were all deliberately getting ready to enjoy the material blessings of life.
“Ah! Why are you late?” the prince said to Levin, smiling, and giving him his hand over his own shoulder. “How’s Kitty?” he added, smoothing out the napkin he had tucked in at his waistcoat buttons.
“All right; they are dining at home, all three of them.”
“Go to that table, and make haste and take a seat,” said the prince, and turning away he carefully took a plate of eel soup.
Konstantin Dmitrich sat, and an irritated-looking young peasant brought a bowl of soup, carelessly sloshing the hot liquid over the sides and into Levin’s lap. He grimaced in pain and annoyance; the perfect, gyroscopically maintained balance of a Class II waiter would never make such a careless error.
But the others only laughed at the accident, and Levin realized that the view held by those in the club-or, at least, the view loudly expressed by those who wanted to be heard saying the right sorts of things-was very different than his own. It was agreed at every table that Russian life had been much improved by the disappearance of those “pesky” robots, always motoring about underfoot, making one feel self-conscious and intruded upon, their circuits forever buzzing and whirring away.
“To humanity!” said the prince, and raised his glass. “To the New Russia!” echoed Sviashky.
“Levin, this way!” a good-natured voice shouted a little farther on. It was Turovtsin. He was sitting with a young officer, and beside them were two chairs turned upside down. Levin gladly went up to them. He had always liked the good-hearted rake, Turovtsin, and at that moment, after the strain of intellectual conversation, the sight of Turovtsin’s good-natured face was particularly welcome.
And maybe… Levin narrowed his eyes and felt his heart pounding in his chest…
With exaggerated casualness, Levin smoothed his beard and approached his old friend with an easy smile. Pulling his chair close to the other man’s, breathing hotly into Turovtsin’s ear, he murmured a single word:
“Rearguard.”
“Eh?” responded Turovtsin loudly, his eyes lighting up. Levin’s heart beat faster; his blood roared in his ears. Could it be Turovtsin? Did he share in the Golden Hope? Who would have thought it was foolish Turovtsin?
“Rearguard?” repeated Turovtsin, but loudly, his eyes glittering with anticipatory merriment in his eyes, as if awaiting the punchline.
Levin drew back, stammering. “Ah… I thought… but, never mind, never mind. I said nothing.”
“Oh, well,” said Turovtsin. “Here, then.” He handed Levin a pair of glasses. “For you and Oblonsky. He’ll be here directly. Ah, here he is!”