Anna Karenina - LimpidSoft

PART SEVEN CHAPTER 9
“Oh, something in a philanthropic way?”
“Why, you will look at everything in the worst light. It’s not from philanthropy,
it’s from the heart. They–that is, Vronsky– had a trainer, an Englishman, first-rate in
his own line, but a drunkard. He’s completely given up to drink–delirium tremens–
and the family were cast on the world. She saw them, helped them, got more and
more interested in them, and now the whole family is on her hands. But not by way
of patronage, you know, helping with money; she’s herself preparing the boys in
Russian for the high school, and she’s taken the little girl to live with her. But you’ll
see her for yourself.”
The carriage drove into the courtyard, and Stepan Arkadyevitch rang loudly at
the entrance where sledges were standing.
And without asking the servant who opened the door whether the lady were at
home, Stepan Arkadyevitch walked into the hall. Levin followed him, more and
more doubtful whether he was doing right or wrong.
Looking at himself in the glass, Levin noticed that he was red in the face, but he
felt certain he was not drunk, and he followed Stepan Arkadyevitch up the carpeted
stairs. At the top Stepan Arkadyevitch inquired of the footman, who bowed to him
as to an intimate friend, who was with Anna Arkadyevna, and received the answer
that it was M. Vorkuev.
“Where are they?”
“In the study.”
Passing through the dining room, a room not very large, with dark, paneled walls,
Stepan Arkadyevitch and Levin walked over the soft carpet to the half-dark study,
lighted up by a single lamp with a big dark shade. Another lamp with a reflector was
hanging on the wall, lighting up a big full-length portrait of a woman, which Levin
could not help looking at. It was the portrait of Anna, painted in Italy by Mihailov.
While Stepan Arkadyevitch went behind the treillage, and the man’s voice which had
been speaking paused, Levin gazed at the portrait, which stood out from the frame
in the brilliant light thrown on it, and he could not tear himself away from it. He
positively forgot where he was, and not even hearing what was said, he could not
take his eyes off the marvelous portrait. It was not a picture, but a living, charming
woman, with black curling hair, with bare arms and shoulders, with a pensive smile
on the lips, covered with soft down; triumphantly and softly she looked at him with
eyes that baffled him. She was not living only because she was more beautiful than
a living woman can be.
“I am delighted!” He heard suddenly near him a voice, unmistakably addressing
him, the voice of the very woman he had been admiring in the portrait. Anna had
come from behind the treillage to meet him, and Levin saw in the dim light of the
study the very woman of the portrait, in a dark blue shot gown, not in the same
position nor with the same expression, but with the same perfection of beauty which
the artist had caught in the portrait. She was less dazzling in reality, but, on the other
hand, there was something fresh and seductive in the living woman which was not
in the portrait.
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