“How? How do you mean? What for?” said Stepan Arkadyich, still nervously eyeing the Class IV that stood staring back at him from the corner.
“Because I am beginning an action for divorce against your sister, my wife. I ought to have-”
But before Alexei Alexandrovich had time to finish his sentence, Stepan Arkadyich was behaving not at all as he had expected. He groaned and sank into an armchair.
“No, Alexei Alexandrovich! What are you saying?” cried Oblonsky, and his suffering was apparent in his face. “Did you hear this?” he said to Small Stiva.
“Heard it, yes, but cannot believe it!”
Alexei Alexandrovich sat down, feeling that his words had not had the effect he anticipated, and that it would be unavoidable for him to explain his position, and that, whatever explanations he might make, his relations with his brother-in-law would remain unchanged. He wished his visitor would go and leave him be, leave him to put the last touches on his beautiful machine.
“Yes, I am brought to the painful necessity of seeking a divorce,” he said.
“I will say one thing, Alexei Alexandrovich,” said Stepan Arkadyich. “I know you for an excellent, upright man; I know Anna-excuse me, I can’t change my opinion of her-for a good, an excellent woman; and so, excuse me, I cannot believe it. There is some misunderstanding.”
“Oh, if it were merely a misunderstanding!”
“Pardon, I understand,” interposed Stepan Arkadyich. “But of course… one thing: you must not act in haste. You must not, you must not act in haste!”
“I am not acting in haste,” Alexei Alexandrovich said coldly, “but one cannot ask advice of anyone in such a matter. I have quite made up my mind.”
“This is awful!” said Stepan Arkadyich. “I would do one thing, Alexei Alexandrovich. I beseech you, do it!” he said. “No action has yet been taken, if I understand rightly. Before you take advice, see my wife, talk to her. She loves Anna like a sister, she loves you, and she’s a wonderful woman. For God’s sake, talk to her! Do me that favor, I beseech you! Do this, come and see my wife.”
“Well, we look at the matter differently,” said Alexei Alexandrovich coldly. “However, we won’t discuss it.”
“No, but why shouldn’t you come today to dine, anyway? My wife’s expecting you. Please, do come. And, above all, talk it over with her. She’s a wonderful woman. For God’s sake, on my knees, I implore you!”
“If you so much wish it, I will come,” said Alexei Alexandrovich, sighing.
“Believe me, I appreciate it, and I hope you won’t regret it,” answered Stepan Arkadyich, smiling. “Come, Small Stiva,” he said. Then, putting on his coat as he went, he cast one last nervous glance at the Class IV, patted Alexei Alexandrovich’s II/Footman/74 on the head, chuckled, and went out.
Alexei stood, shaking his head with irritation. He thought the word engage, and the eyes of the Class IV glowed to life. He thought the word reduce, and in the next instant the chair on which Stiva had perched burst into flames and burned quickly away to ash.
OH SO MANY THINGS said the Face, and Karenin’s mind echoed with terrible, cackling laughter.
CHAPTER 5
IT WAS PAST FIVE, and several guests had already arrived at the Oblonskys’ for dinner, before the host himself got home. He went in together with the intellectuals, Sergey Ivanovitch Koznishev and Pestsov, two men respected for their education and erudition, and widely known for their strong opinions on the Robot Question. Koznishev and Pestsov respected each other, but were in complete and hopeless disagreement upon almost every fine point of the subject, for each had his own special shade of opinion. Both men were leading exponents of what was known broadly as the Advancement Theory, holding that servomechanisms must and should grow in their intelligence and abilities. Koznishev believed that this process should be carefully overseen by the appropriate branches of the Ministry at each step, in order that robot capabilities remained carefully understood and contained. Koznishev considered himself an acolyte of the Jewish scholar Abraham Ber Ozimov, a rye merchant turned machine theorist from Petrovichi whose theories had inspired the Iron Laws, anticipating the need to safeguard against any future “rebellion of the machines.” Pestsov dismissed this idea of mechanical revolt as a fairy tale, the sort ofthing used to scare children into obeying their II/Governess/7s. He argued that the gadgetmen should go wherever their experimentation led them, and that their charges should be allowed to socialize more freely with each other, and with humankind. In this way, said Pestsov and his supporters, they could learn and grow in a natural and organic process.
Since no difference is less easily overcome than the difference of opinion about semi-abstract questions, the two intellectuals never agreed in any opinion, and had long, indeed, been accustomed to jeer without anger, each at the other’s incorrigible aberrations.
In the drawing room there were already sitting Prince Alexander Dmitrievich Shcherbatsky, Turovtsin, Kitty, and the stiff figure of Karenin, his telescoping oculus scanning the room.
Oblonsky worked his sociable magic on the assemblage in the drawing room, beginning them in innocuous but spirited conversation, and then, in the dining room he was met by Konstantin Levin and the familiar, angular figure of Socrates.
“I’m not late?”
“Of course we’re late. We were invited for half past seven, and at present the exact-”
“You can never help being late!” said Stepan Arkadyich, taking Levin’s arm and wagging a merry finger at Socrates.
“Have you a lot of people? Who’s here?” asked Levin, unable to help blushing, as his beloved-companion took his cap and carefully knocked the snow off it.
“All our own set. Kitty’s here. Come along, I’ll introduce you to Karenin.”
Stepan Arkadyich was well aware that to meet Karenin, a man of the Higher Branches, was sure to be felt as a flattering distinction, and so treated his best friends to this honor. But at that instant Konstantin Levin was not in a condition to feel all the gratification of making such an acquaintance. He had not seen Kitty since that memorable evening when he met Vronsky, not counting, that is, the moment when he had had a glimpse of her on the highroad, in her luminescent semiconscious state as she emerged from suspended animation. He had known at the bottom of his heart that he would see her here today. But now, when he heard that she was here, he was suddenly conscious of such delight, and at the same time of such dread, that his breath failed him and he could not utter what he wanted to say.
“Oh, please, introduce me to Karenin,” Levin brought out with an effort, and with a desperately determined step he walked into the drawing room and beheld her. And as he walked, Socrates, walking one step behind, said precisely what he was thinking, anxiously whispering the words into the nape of his neck, just above the level of thought: “What is she like, what is she like? Like what she used to be, or like what she was in the carriage? What if Darya Alexandrovna told the truth? Why shouldn’t it be the truth?”
She was not the same as she used to be, nor was she as she had been in the carriage; she was quite different.
She was scared, shy, shame-faced, and still more charming from it. She saw him the very instant he walked into the room. She had been expecting him. She was delighted, and so confused at her own delight that there was a moment, the moment when he went up to her sister and glanced again at her, when she, and he, and Dolly, who saw it all, thought she would break down and would begin to cry. She crimsoned, turned white, crimsoned again, and grew faint, waiting with quivering lips for him to come to her. Tatiana, her once-ignored, now-beloved Class III, sat beside her, gently massaging her knee. Levin went up to them, bowed, and held out his hand without speaking. Except for the slight quiver of her lips and the moisture in her eyes that made them brighter, her smile was almost calm as she said: