Anna Karenina - LimpidSoft

PART ONE CHAPTER 33
The coffee was never really made, but spluttered over every one, and boiled away,
doing just what was required of it–that is, providing much cause for much noise and
laughter, and spoiling a costly rug and the baroness’s gown.
“Well now, good-bye, or you’ll never get washed, and I shall have on my conscience
the worst sin a gentleman can commit. So you would advise a knife to his
throat?”
“To be sure, and manage that your hand may not be far from his lips. He’ll kiss
your hand, and all will end satisfactorily,” answered Vronsky.
“So at the Francais!” and, with a rustle of her skirts, she vanished.
Kamerovsky got up too, and Vronsky, not waiting for him to go, shook hands and
went off to his dressing room.
While he was washing, Petritsky described to him in brief outlines his position,
as far as it had changed since Vronsky had left Petersburg. No money at all. His
father said he wouldn’t give him any and pay his debts. His tailor was trying to get
him locked up, and another fellow, too, was threatening to get him locked up. The
colonel of the regiment had announced that if these scandals did not cease he would
have to leave. As for the baroness, he was sick to death of her, especially since she’d
taken to offering continually to lend him money. But he had found a girl–he’d show
her to Vronsky–a marvel, exquisite, in the strict Oriental style, “genre of the slave
Rebecca, don’t you know.” He’d had a row, too, with Berkoshov, and was going to
send seconds to him, but of course it would come to nothing. Altogether everything
was supremely amusing and jolly. And, not letting his comrade enter into further
details of his position, Petritsky proceeded to tell him all the interesting news. As
he listened to Petritsky’s familiar stories in the familiar setting of the rooms he had
spent the last three years in, Vronsky felt a delightful sense of coming back to the
careless Petersburg life that he was used to.
“Impossible!” he cried, letting down the pedal of the washing basin in which he
had been sousing his healthy red neck. “Impossible!” he cried, at the news that
Laura had flung over Fertinghof and had made up to Mileev. “And is he as stupid
and pleased as ever? Well, and how’s Buzulukov?”
“Oh, there is a tale about Buzulukov–simply lovely!” cried Petritsky. “You know
his weakness for balls, and he never misses a single court ball. He went to a big ball
in a new helmet. Have you seen the new helmets? Very nice, lighter. Well, so he’s
standing.... No, I say, do listen.”
“I am listening,” answered Vronsky, rubbing himself with a rough towel.
“Up comes the Grand Duchess with some ambassador or other, and, as ill-luck
would have it, she begins talking to him about the new helmets. The Grand Duchess
positively wanted to show the new helmet to the ambassador. They see our friend
standing there.” (Petritsky mimicked how he was standing with the helmet.) “The
Grand Duchess asked him to give her the helmet; he doesn’t give it to her. What
do you think of that? Well, every one’s winking at him, nodding, frowning–give it
to her, do! He doesn’t give it to her. He’s mute as a fish. Only picture it!... Well,
the...what’s his name, whatever he was...tries to take the helmet from him...he won’t
give it up!... He pulls it from him, and hands it to the Grand Duchess. ‘Here, your
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