Anna Karenina

“his is rather indiscreet, but it’s so good it’s an awful temptation
to tell the story,” said Vronsky, looking at her with his laughing
eyes. “I’m not going to mention any names.”

“But I shall guess, so much the better.”

“Well, listen: two festive young men were driving—”

“Officers of your regiment, of course?”

“I didn’t say they were officers,—two young men who had been lunching.”

“In other words, drinking.”

“Possibly. They were driving on their way to dinner with a friend in
the most festive state of mind. And they beheld a pretty woman in a
hired sledge; she overtakes them, looks round at them, and, so they
fancy anyway, nods to them and laughs. They, of course, follow her.
They gallop at full speed. To their amazement, the fair one alights at
the entrance of the very house to which they were going. The fair one
darts upstairs to the top story. They get a glimpse of red lips under a
short veil, and exquisite little feet.”

“You describe it with such feeling that I fancy you must be one of the
two.”

“And after what you said, just now! Well, the young men go in to their
comrade’s; he was giving a farewell dinner. There they certainly did
drink a little too much, as one always does at farewell dinners. And at
dinner they inquire who lives at the top in that house. No one knows;
only their host’s valet, in answer to their inquiry whether any ‘young
ladies’ are living on the top floor, answered that there were a great
many of them about there. After dinner the two young men go into their
host’s study, and write a letter to the unknown fair one. They compose
an ardent epistle, a declaration in fact, and they carry the letter
upstairs themselves, so as to elucidate whatever might appear not
perfectly intelligible in the letter.”

“Why are you telling me these horrible stories? Well?”

“They ring. A maid-servant opens the door, they hand her the letter,
and assure the maid that they’re both so in love that they’ll die on
the spot at the door. The maid, stupefied, carries in their messages.
All at once a gentleman appears with whiskers like sausages, as red as
a lobster, announces that there is no one living in the flat except his
wife, and sends them both about their business.”

“How do you know he had whiskers like sausages, as you say?”

“Ah, you shall hear. I’ve just been to make peace between them.”

“Well, and what then?”

“That’s the most interesting part of the story. It appears that it’s a
happy couple, a government clerk and his lady. The government clerk
lodges a complaint, and I became a mediator, and such a mediator!... I
assure you Talleyrand couldn’t hold a candle to me.”

“Why, where was the difficulty?”

“Ah, you shall hear.... We apologize in due form: we are in despair, we
entreat forgiveness for the unfortunate misunderstanding. The
government clerk with the sausages begins to melt, but he, too, desires
to express his sentiments, and as soon as ever he begins to express
them, he begins to get hot and say nasty things, and again I’m obliged
to trot out all my diplomatic talents. I allowed that their conduct was
bad, but I urged him to take into consideration their heedlessness,
their youth; then, too, the young men had only just been lunching
together. ‘You understand. They regret it deeply, and beg you to
overlook their misbehavior.’ The government clerk was softened once
more. ‘I consent, count, and am ready to overlook it; but you perceive
that my wife—my wife’s a respectable woman—has been exposed to the
persecution, and insults, and effrontery of young upstarts,
scoundrels....’ And you must understand, the young upstarts are present
all the while, and I have to keep the peace between them. Again I call
out all my diplomacy, and again as soon as the thing was about at an
end, our friend the government clerk gets hot and red, and his sausages
stand on end with wrath, and once more I launch out into diplomatic
wiles.”

“Ah, he must tell you this story!” said Betsy, laughing, to a lady who
came into her box. “He has been making me laugh so.”

“Well, bonne chance!” she added, giving Vronsky one finger of the
hand in which she held her fan, and with a shrug of her shoulders she
twitched down the bodice of her gown that had worked up, so as to be
duly naked as she moved forward towards the footlights into the light
of the gas, and the sight of all eyes.

Vronsky drove to the French theater, where he really had to see the
colonel of his regiment, who never missed a single performance there.
He wanted to see him, to report on the result of his mediation, which
had occupied and amused him for the last three days. Petritsky, whom he
liked, was implicated in the affair, and the other culprit was a
capital fellow and first-rate comrade, who had lately joined the
regiment, the young Prince Kedrov. And what was most important, the
interests of the regiment were involved in it too.

Both the young men were in Vronsky’s company. The colonel of the
regiment was waited upon by the government clerk, Venden, with a
complaint against his officers, who had insulted his wife. His young
wife, so Venden told the story—he had been married half a year—was at
church with her mother, and suddenly overcome by indisposition, arising
from her interesting condition, she could not remain standing, she
drove home in the first sledge, a smart-looking one, she came across.
On the spot the officers set off in pursuit of her; she was alarmed,
and feeling still more unwell, ran up the staircase home. Venden
himself, on returning from his office, heard a ring at their bell and
voices, went out, and seeing the intoxicated officers with a letter, he
had turned them out. He asked for exemplary punishment.

“Yes, it’s all very well,” said the colonel to Vronsky, whom he had
invited to come and see him. “Petritsky’s becoming impossible. Not a
week goes by without some scandal. This government clerk won’t let it
drop, he’ll go on with the thing.”

Vronsky saw all the thanklessness of the business, and that there could
be no question of a duel in it, that everything must be done to soften
the government clerk, and hush the matter up. The colonel had called in
Vronsky just because he knew him to be an honorable and intelligent
man, and, more than all, a man who cared for the honor of the regiment.
They talked it over, and decided that Petritsky and Kedrov must go with
Vronsky to Venden’s to apologize. The colonel and Vronsky were both
fully aware that Vronsky’s name and rank would be sure to contribute
greatly to the softening of the injured husband’s feelings.

And these two influences were not in fact without effect; though the
result remained, as Vronsky had described, uncertain.

On reaching the French theater, Vronsky retired to the foyer with the
colonel, and reported to him his success, or non-success. The colonel,
thinking it all over, made up his mind not to pursue the matter
further, but then for his own satisfaction proceeded to cross-examine
Vronsky about his interview; and it was a long while before he could
restrain his laughter, as Vronsky described how the government clerk,
after subsiding for a while, would suddenly flare up again, as he
recalled the details, and how Vronsky, at the last half word of
conciliation, skillfully manœuvered a retreat, shoving Petritsky out
before him.

“It’s a disgraceful story, but killing. Kedrov really can’t fight the
gentleman! Was he so awfully hot?” he commented, laughing. “But what do
you say to Claire today? She’s marvelous,” he went on, speaking of a
new French actress. “However often you see her, every day she’s
different. It’s only the French who can do that.”