Anna Karenina - LimpidSoft

PART SIX CHAPTER 19
Anna was not embarrassed now. She was perfectly composed and at ease. Dolly
saw that she had now completely recovered from the impression her arrival had
made on her, and had assumed that superficial, careless tone which, as it were, closed
the door on that compartment in which her deeper feelings and ideas were kept.
“Well, Anna, and how is your little girl?” asked Dolly.
“Annie?” (This was what she called her little daughter Anna.) “Very well. She has
got on wonderfully. Would you like to see her? Come, I’ll show her to you. We had
a terrible bother,” she began telling her, “over nurses. We had an Italian wet-nurse.
A good creature, but so stupid! We wanted to get rid of her, but the baby is so used
to her that we’ve gone on keeping her still.”
“But how have you managed?...” Dolly was beginning a question as to what name
the little girl would have; but noticing a sudden frown on Anna’s face, she changed
the drift of her question.
“How did you manage? have you weaned her yet?”
But Anna had understood.
“You didn’t mean to ask that? You meant to ask about her surname. Yes? That
worries Alexey. She has no name–that is, she’s a Karenina,” said Anna, dropping
her eyelids till nothing could be seen but the eyelashes meeting. “But we’ll talk
about all that later,” her face suddenly brightening. “Come, I’ll show you her. Elle
est tres gentille. She crawls now.”
In the nursery the luxury which had impressed Dolly in the whole house struck
her still more. There were little go-carts ordered from England, and appliances for
learning to walk, and a sofa after the fashion of a billiard table, purposely constructed
for crawling, and swings and baths, all of special pattern, and modern. They were
all English, solid, and of good make, and obviously very expensive. The room was
large, and very light and lofty.
When they went in, the baby, with nothing on but her little smock, was sitting in
a little elbow chair at the table, having her dinner of broth, which she was spilling
all over her little chest. The baby was being fed, and the Russian nursery maid was
evidently sharing her meal. Neither the wet-nurse nor the head nurse were there;
they were in the next room, from which came the sound of their conversation in the
queer French which was their only means of communication.
Hearing Anna’s voice, a smart, tall, English nurse with a disagreeable face and
a dissolute expression walked in at the door, hurriedly shaking her fair curls, and
immediately began to defend herself though Anna had not found fault with her.
At every word Anna said, the English nurse said hurriedly several times, “Yes, my
lady.”
The rosy baby with her black eyebrows and hair, her sturdy red little body with
tight goose-flesh skin, delighted Darya Alexandrovna in spite of the cross expression
with which she stared at the stranger. She positively envied the baby’s healthy
appearance. She was delighted, too, at the baby’s crawling. Not one of her own children
had crawled like that. When the baby was put on the carpet and its little dress
tucked up behind, it was wonderfully charming. Looking round like some little
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