Adelaida always has a handkerchief. And still I cannot resist it. I say,
‘There’s the hanky!’ Nevertheless, in two minutes it has worked its way
with me. She squeezes it in her poor, plump hand as the tears begin to
rise; Fate, or man, is Free 5.0 V4 Mens inexorable, so cruel. There is a sob, a cry; she presses

the fist and the hanky to her eyes, one eye, then the other. She weeps real
tears, tears shaken from the depths of her soft, vulnerable, victimized female
self. I cannot stand it. There I sit in the padrone’s little red box and
stifle my emotion, whilst I repeat in my heart: ‘What a shame, child, what
a shame!’ She is twice my age, but what is age in such circumstances?
‘Your poor little hanky, it’s sopping. There, then, don’t cry. It’ll be all
right. I’ll see you’re all right. All men are not beasts, you know.’ So I cover
her protectively in my arms, and soon I shall be kissing her, for comfort,
in the heat and prowess of my compassion, kissing her soft, plump
cheek and neck closely, bringing my comfort nearer and nearer.
It is a pleasant and exciting role for me to play. Robert Burns did the
part to perfection:
O wert thou in the cauld blast On yonder lea, on yonder lea.
How many times does one recite that to all the Ophelias and
Gretchens in the world:
Thy bield should be my bosom.
How one admires one’s bosom in that capacity! Looking down at one’s
shirt-front, one is filled with strength and pride.
Why are the women so bad at playing this part in real life, this
Ophelia-Gretchen role? Why are they so unwilling to go mad and die for
our sakes? They do it regularly on the stage.
But perhaps, after all, we write the plays. What a villain I am, what a
black-browed, passionate, ruthless, masculine villain I am to the leading
lady on the stage; and, on Free 5.0 V2 Womens the other hand, dear heart, what a hero, what a

fount of chivalrous generosity and faith! I am anything but a dull and
law-abiding citizen. I am a Galahad, full of purity and spirituality, I am
the Lancelot of valour and lust; I fold my hands, or I cock my hat in one
side, as the case may be: I am myself. Only, I am not a respectable citizen,
not that, in this hour of my glory and my escape.
Dear Heaven, how Adelaida wept, her voice plashing like violin music,
at my ruthless, masculine cruelty. Dear heart, how she sighed to rest
on my sheltering bosom! And how I enjoyed my dual nature

afterwards the men exclaim involuntarily, out of their strong emotion,
‘bella, bella!’ The women say nothing. They sit stiffly and dangerously as
ever. But, no doubt, they quite agree this is the true picture of ill-used,
tear-stained woman, the bearer of many wrongs. Therefore they take unto
themselves the homage of the men’s ‘bella, bella!’ that follows the sobs:
it is due recognition of the Free Run 2 Mens ir hard wrongs: ‘the woman pays.’ Nevertheless,

they despise in their souls the plump, soft Adelaida.
Dear Adelaida, she is irreproachable. In every age, in every clime, she
is dear, at any rate to the masculine soul, this soft, tear-blenched, blonde,
ill-used thing. She must be ill-used and unfortunate. Dear Gretchen, dear
Desdemona, dear Iphigenia, dear Dame aux Camelias, dear Lucy of
Lammermoor, dear Mary Magdalene, dear, pathetic, unfortunate soul, in
all ages and lands, how we love you. In the theatre she blossoms forth,
she is the lily of the stage. Young and inexperienced as I am, I have
broken my heart over her several times. I could write a sonnet-sequence
to her, yes, the fair, pale, tear-stained thing, white-robed, with her hair
down her back; I could call her by a hundred names, in a hundred languages,
Melisande, Elizabeth, Juliet, Butterfly, Phedre, Minnehaha, etc.
Each new time I hear her voice, with its faint clang of tears, my heart
grows big and hot, and my bones melt. I detest her, but it is no good. My
heart begins to swell like a bud under the plangent rain.
The last time I saw her was here, on the Garda, at Salo. She was the
chalked, thin-armed daughter of Rigoletto. I detested her, her voice had
a chalky squeak in it. And yet, by the end, my heart was overripe in my
breast, ready to burst with l Free 6.0 Mens oving affection. I was ready to walk on to the

stage, to wipe out the odious, miscreant lover, and to offer her all myself,
saying, ‘I can see it is real love you want, and you shall have it: I will give
it to you.’
Of course I know the secret of the Gretchen magic; it is all in the ‘Save
me, Mr Hercules!’ phrase. Her shyness, her timidity, her trustfulness, her
tears foster my own strength and grandeur. I am the positive half of the
universe. But so I am, if it comes to that, just as positive as the other half.
Adelaida is plump, and her voice has just that moist, plangent strength
which gives one a real voluptuous thrill. The moment she comes on the
stage and looks round—a bit scared—she is she, Electra, Isolde,
Sieglinde, Marguerite. She wears a dress of black voile, like the lady who
weeps at the trial in the police-court. This is her modern uniform. Her
antique garment is of trailing white, with a blonde pigtail

So the audience loved it. After the performance of Ghosts I saw the
barber, and he had the curious grey clayey look of an Italian who is cold
and depressed. The sterile cold inertia, which the so-called passionate
nations know so well, had settled on him, and he went obliterating himself
in the street, as if he were cold, dead.
But after the D’Annun Free Run 3 Mens zio play he was like a man who has drunk sweet

wine and is warm.
‘Ah, bellissimo, bellissimo!’ he said, in tones of intoxicated reverence,
when he saw me.
‘Better than I Spettri?’ I said.
He half-raised his hands, as if to imply the fatuity of the question.
‘Ah, but—’ he said, ‘it was D’Annunzio. The other… .’
‘That was Ibsen—a great Norwegian,’ I said, ‘famous all over the
world.’
‘But you know—D’Annunzio is a poet—oh, beautiful, beautiful!’ There
was no going beyond this ‘bello—bellissimo’.
It was the language which did it. It was the Italian passion for rhetoric,
for the speech which appeals to the senses and makes no demand on the
mind. When an Englishman listens to a speech he wants at least to imagine
that he understands thoroughly and impersonally what is meant.
But an Italian only cares about the emotion. It is the movement, the physical
effect of the language upon the blood which gives him supreme satisfaction.
His mind is scarcely engaged at all. He is like a child, hearing
and feeling without understanding. It is the sensuous gratification he
asks for. Which is why D’Annunzio is a god in Italy. He can control the
current of the blood with his words, and although much of what he says
is bosh, yet his hearer is satisfied, fulfilled.
Carnival ends on the 5th of F Free Run 2 Womens ebruary, so each Thursday there is a

Serata d’ Onore of one of the actors. The first, and the only one for which
prices were raised—to a fourpence entrance fee instead of threepence—
was for the leading lady. The play was The Wife of the Doctor, a
modern piece, sufficiently uninteresting; the farce that followed made
me laugh.
Since it was her Evening of Honour, Adelaida was the person to see.
She is very popular, though she is no longer young. In fact, she is the
mother of the young pert person of Ghosts.
Nevertheless, Adelaida, stout and blonde and soft and pathetic, is the
real heroine of the theatre, the prima. She is very good at

helplessly in him through the insistent, inflammable flesh. Even this
play-acting was a form of physical gratification for him, it had in it
neither real mind nor spirit.
It was so different from Ibsen, and so much more moving. Ibsen is exciting,
nervously sensational. But this was really moving, a real crying in
the night. One loved the Italian nation, and wanted to help it with all
one’s soul. But when one sees the perfect Ibsen, how one hates the Norwegian
and Swedish nations! They are detestable.
They seem to be fingering with the mind the secret places and sources
of the blood, impertinent, irreverent, nasty. There is a certain intolerable
nastiness about the real Ibsen: the same thing is in Strindberg and in
most of the Norwegian and Swedish writings. It is with them a sort of
phallic worship also, but now the worship is mental and perverted: the
phallus is the real fetish, but it is the source of uncleanliness and corruption
and death, it is the Moloch, worshipped in obscenity.
Which is unbearable. The phallus is a symbol of creative divinity. But
it represents only part o Free Run 2 Womens f creative divinity. The Italian has made it represent

the whole. Which is now his misery, for he has to destroy his symbol
in himself.
Which is why the Italian men have the enthusiasm for war, unashamed.
Partly it is the true phallic worship, for the phallic principle is
to absorb and dominate all life. But also it is a desire to expose themselves
to death, to know death, that death may destroy in them this too
strong dominion of the blood, may once more liberate the spirit of outgoing,
of uniting, of making order out of chaos, in the outer world, as the
flesh makes a new order from chaos in begetting a new life, set them free
to know and serve a greater i Free Run 3 Mens dea.

The peasants below sat and listened intently, like children who hear
and do not understand, yet who are spellbound. The children themselves
sit spellbound on the benches till the play is over. They do not fidget or
lose interest. They watch with wide, absorbed eyes at the mystery, held
in thrall by the sound of emotion.
But the villagers do not really care for Ibsen. They let it go. On the
feast of Epiphany, as a specia Free Run 3 Womens l treat, was given a poetic drama by

D’Annunzio, La Fiaccola sotto il Moggio—The Light under the Bushel.
It is a foolish romantic play of no real significance. There are several
murders and a good deal of artificial horror. But it is all a

The mother was a pleasant, comfortable woman harassed by
something, she did not quite know what. The pastor was a ginger-haired
caricature imitated from the northern stage, quite a lay figure. The peasants
never laughed, they watched solemnly and absorbedly like children.
The servant was just a slim, pert, forward hussy, much too flagrant. And
then the son, the actor-manager: he was a dark, ruddy man, broad and
thick-set, evidently of peasant origin, but with some education now; he
was the important figure, the play was his.
And he was strangely disturbing. Dark, ruddy, and powerful, he could
not be the blighted son of ‘Ghosts’, the hectic, unsound, northern issue of
a diseased father. His flashy Italian passion for his half-sister was real
enough to make one uncomfortable: something he wanted and would
have in spite of his ow Free 6.0 Mens n soul, something which fundamentally he did not

want.
It was this contradiction within the man that made the play so interesting.
A robust, vigorous man of thirty-eight, flaunting and florid as a
rather successful Italian can be, there was yet a secret sickness which oppressed
him. But it was no taint in the blood, it was rather a kind of debility
in the soul. That which he wanted and would have, the sensual excitement,
in his soul he did not want it, no, not at all. And yet he must act
from his physical desires, his physical will.
His true being, his real self, was impotent. In his soul he was dependent,
forlorn. He was childish and dependent on the mother. To hear him
say, ‘Grazia, mamma!’ woul Free Run 2 Mens d have tormented the mother-soul in any woman

living. Such a child crying in the night! And for what?
For he was hot-blooded, healthy, almost in his prime, and free as a
man can be in his circumstances. He had his own way, he admitted no
thwarting. He governed his circumstances pretty much, coming to our
village with his little company, playing the plays he chose himself. And
yet, that which he would have he did not vitally want, it was only a sort
of inflamed obstinacy that made him so insistent, in the masculine way.
He was not going to be governed by women, he was not going to be dictated
to in the least by any one. And this because he was beaten by his
own flesh.
His real man’s soul, the soul that goes forth and builds up a new world
out of the void, was ineffectual. It could only revert to the senses. His divinity
was the phallic divinity. The other male divinity, which is the spirit
that fulfils in the world the new germ of an idea, this was denied and
obscured in him, unused. And it was this spirit which cried

`You’ve just returned after traveling,’ said the Baroness, `so I’ll run along. Oh, I’ll be
off this minute, if I’m in the way!’
`You’re home, wherever you ar

 

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nevitable. As for the Baro

e, Baroness,’ said Vronsky. `How do you do,
oke up at his usual hour, that is,
Kamerovsky?’ he added, coldly shaking hands with Kamerovsky.
`There, you can never say such charming things,’ said the Baroness, turning to
Petritsky.
`No – why not? After dinner even I can say things quite as good.’
`After dinner there’s no merit in them! Well, then, I’ll give you some coffee; go wash
and tidy up,’ said the Baroness, sitting down again, and anxiously turning a gadget in
the new coffee urn. `Pierre, give me the coffee,’ she said, addressing Petritsky, whom
she called Pierre, playing on his surname, making no secret of her relations with him.
`I want to put some more in.’
`You’ll spoil it!’
`No, I won’t spoil it! Well, and how is your wife?’ said the Baroness suddenly,
interrupting Vronsky’s conversation with his comrade. `We’ve been marrying you off
here. Have you brought your wife along?’
`No, Baroness. I was born a gypsy, and a gypsy I’ll die.’
`So much the better – so much the better. Shake hands on it.’
And the Baroness, detaining Vronsky, began telling him, interspersing her story with
many jokes, about her latest plans of life, and seeking his counsel.
`He persists in refusing to give me a divorce! Well, what am I to do?’ (He was her
husband.) `Now I want to begin a suit against him. What would you advise?
Kamerovsky, look after the coffee – it’s boiled out; you can see I’m taken up with
business! I want a lawsuit, because I must have my property. You can understand the
stupidity of his saying that I am unfaithful to him,’ she said contemptuously, `yet
through it he wants to get the benefit of my fortune.’
Vronsky heard with pleasure this lighthearted prattle of a pretty woman, said yes to
everything, gave her half-joking counsel, and altogether dropped at once into the tone
habitual to him in talking to such women. In his Peterburg world all people were
divided into two utterly opposed kinds. On

 

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e, the lower, consisted of vulgar, stupid
and, above all, ridiculous people, who believe that one husband ought to live with the
one wife whom he has lawfully wedded; that a girl should be innocent, a woman
modest, and a man manly, self-controlled, and strong; that one ought to bring up one’s
children, earn one’s bread and pay one’s debts; and various similar absurdities. Those
people were of an old-fashioned and ridiculous kind. But there was another kind of
oke up at his usual hour, that is,
people – real people, to which they all belonged, and here the chief thing was to be
elegant, magnanimous, daring, gay, and to abandon oneself without a blush to every
passion, and to laugh at everything else.
For the first moment only, Vronsky was startled, after the impressions of a quite
different world that he had brought with him from Moscow; but immediately, as
though he had thrust his feet into old slippers, he stepped into his former lighthearted,
pleasant world.
The coffee was really never made, but spluttered over everyone and boiled away,
doing just what was required of it – that is, providing cause for much noise and
laughter, and spoiling a costly rug and the Barones’ss gown.
`Well, good-by now – or else you’ll never get washed, and I shall have on my

conscience the worst offense any decent person can commit – uncleanliness. So you
would advise a knife at his thro

 

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at?’
`Absolutely – and in such a way that your little hand may not be far from his lips.
He’ll kiss it, and all will end well,’ answered Vronsky.
`So, the Fran?ais tonight!’ and, with a rustle of her skirts, she vanished.
Kamerovsky got up too, and Vronsky, without waiting for him to go, shook hands
and went off to his dressing room. While he was washing, Petritsky briefly outlined to
him his position, as far as it had changed since Vronsky’s departure from Peterburg.
No money whatsoever. His father said he wouldn’t give him any, nor pay his debts.
His tailor was trying to get him locked up, and another fellow, too, was threatening to
do so without fail. The colonel of his regiment had announced that if these scandals
did not cease a resignation would be i

Free 3.0 V2 Mensness, he was fed up

with her, particularly because she was forever wanting to give him money. But there
was another girl – he intended showing her to Vronsky – a marvel, exquisite, in the
strict Oriental style, `genre of the slave Rebecca, you see.’ He had had a row, too, with
Berkoshev, and the latter intended sending seconds, but, of course, it would all come
to nothing. Altogether everything was going splendidly and was most jolly. And,
without 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 the delightful sensation of coming back to the insouciant and customary
life of Peterburg.
`Impossible!’ he cried, releasing the pedal of the wash basin in which he had been
sousing his stalwart red neck. `Impossible!’ he cried, at the news that Laura had
oke up at his usual hour, that is,
dropped Fertinghof and had tied up with Mileev. `And is he as stupid and satisfied as
ever? Well, and what’s Buzulukov doing?’
`Oh, Buzulukov got into a scrape – simply lovely!’ cried Petritsky. `You know his
passion for balls – and he never misses a single one at court. He went to a big ball in a
new casque. Have you seen the new casques? Very good, and lighter. Well, he’s
standing… No – do listen.’
`I am listening,’ answered Vronsky, rubbing himself with a rough towel.
`The Grand Duchess passes by with some ambassador or other, and, as ill luck would
have it, their talk veers to the new casques. And so the Grand Duchess wanted to show
the new casque to the ambassador…. Just then they catch sight of our dear boy
standing there.’ (Petritsky mimicked him, standing with his casque.) `The Grand
Duchess requested him to give her the casque – he doesn’t do so. What’s up? Well,
they all wink at him, and nod and frown – give it to her, do! He still doesn’t. Just
stands there, stock-still. You can picture it to yourself!… Well, this… what’s his
name… tries to take the casque from him… He won’t give it up!… This chap tore it
from him, and hands it to the Grand Duchess. `This is the new casque,’ says the Grand
Duchess. She turned the casque over, and – just picture it! – bang went a pear and
candy out of it – two pounds of candy!… He’d collected all that – our dear boy!’
Vronsky rolled with laughter. And, long afterward, even when he was talking of other
things, he would go off into peals of his hearty laughter baring his strong, closely set
teeth, whenever he thought of the casque.

Having learned all the news, Vronsky, with the assistance of his valet, got into his
uniform, and went off to report himself. He intended, afterward, to go to his brother
and to Betsy, and to pay several visits, as an entering wedge into that society where he
might meet Madame Karenina. A

 

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rtured by suspicions

s always in Peterburg, he left home without any
intention of returning before very late at night.
[Next Chapter] [Table of Contents]
[Previous Chapter] [Table of Contents]
PART TWO
oke up at his usual hour, that is,
Chapter 1
Toward the end of winter, in the house of the Shcherbatskys, a consultation was being
held, which was to determine the state of Kitty’s health, and what was to be done to
restore her failing strength. She had been ill, and, as spring came on, she grew worse.
The family doctor gave her cod-liver oil, then iron, then lunar caustic; but since
neither the first, nor the second, nor the third availed, and since his advice was to go
abroad before the beginning of the spring, a celebrated doctor was called in. The
celebrated doctor, not yet old and a very handsome man, demanded an examination of
the patient. He maintained, with special satisfaction, it seemed, that maiden modesty
is merely a relic of barbarism, and that nothing could be more natural than for a man
who was not yet old to handle a young girl in the nude. He deemed this natural,
because he did it every day, and neither felt nor thought, as it seemed to him, anything
evil as he did it and, consequently, he considered girlish modesty not merely as a relic
of barbarism, but, as well, an insult to himself.
It was necessary to submit, for, although all the doctors studied in the same school,
all using the same textbooks, and all learned in the same science, and though some
people said this celebrated doctor was but a poor doctor, in the Princess’s household
and circle it was for some reason held that this celebrated doctor alone had some
peculiar knowledge, and that he alone could save Kitty. After thorough examination
and tapping of the patient, distraught and dazed with shame, the celebrated doctor,
having painstakingly washed his hands, was standing in the drawing room talking to
the Prince. The Prince frowned and coughed as he listened to the doctor. As a man
who had seen something of life, and neither a fool nor an invalid, he had no faith in
medicine, and at soul was wrought up with all this comedy, especially as he was
probably the only one who fully understood the cause of Kitty’s illness. `You’re
barking up the wrong tree,’ he mentally applied this phrase from the hunter’s
vocabulary to the celebrated

 

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doctor, as he listened to the latter’s patter about the
symptoms of his daughter’s complaint. The doctor, for his part, found difficulty in
restraining the expression of his contempt for this old grandee, as well as in
condescending to the low level of his comprehension. He perceived that it was useless
to talk to the old man, and that the head of this house was the mother – and she it was
before whom he intended to scatter his pearls. It was at this point that the Princess
entered the drawing room with the family doctor. The Prince retreated, doing his best
not to betray how ridiculous he regarded the whole comedy. The Princess was
distraught, and did not know what to do. She felt herself at fault before Kitty.
`Well, doctor, decide our fate,’ said the Princess. `Tell me everything.’ – `Is there any
hope?’ was what she had wanted to say, but her lips quivered, and she could not utter
this question. `Well, doctor?’
oke up at his usual hour, that is,
`Immediately, Princess – I will discuss the matter with my colleague, and then have
the honor of laying my opinion before you.’
`Then we had better leave you?’
`As you please.’

The Princess, with a sigh, stepped outside.
When the doctors were left alone, th

 

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e family doctor began timidly explaining his
opinion, that there was an incipient tubercular process, but… and so on. The celebrated
doctor listened to him, and in the middle of the other’s speech looked at his big gold
watch.
`That is so,’ said he. `But…’
The family doctor respectfully ceased in the middle of his speech.
`As you know, we cannot determine the incipience of the tubercular process; until the
appearance of vomicae there is nothing determinate. But we may suspect it. And there
are indications: malnutrition, nervous excitability, and so on. The question stands
thus: if we suspect a tubercular process, what must we do to maintain nutrition?’
`But then, you know, there are always moral, spiritual causes at the back of these
cases,’ the family doctor permitted himself to interpolate with a subtle smile.
`Yes, that’s to be taken for granted,’ retorted the celebrated doctor, again glancing at
his watch. `Beg pardon – but is the Iauzsky bridge finished yet, or must one still make
a detour?’ he asked. `Ah! It is finished. Well, in that case I can make it in twenty
minutes. As we were saying, the question may be posited thus: the nutrition must be
maintained and the nerves improved. The one is bound with the other; one must work
upon both sides of this circle.’
`But what about the trip abroad?’ asked the family doctor.
`I am a foe to trips abroad. And take notice: if there is any incipient tubercular
process, which we cannot know, a trip abroad will not help. We must have a remedy
that would improve nutrition, and do no harm.’
And the celebrated doctor expounded his plan of treatment with Soden waters, in
designating which his main end was evidently their harmlessness.
oke up at his usual hour, that is,
The family doctor heard him out attentively and respectfully.
`But in favor of foreign travel I would urge the change of habits, the removal from
conditions which evoke memories. And then – the mother wishes it,’ he added.
`Ah! Well, in that case, one might go; well, let them go; but those German charlatans
may do harm…. Our instructions ought to be followed…. Well, let them go then.’
He again glanced at his watch.
`Oh! it’s time to go,’ and he went to the door.
The celebrated doctor informed the Princess (prompted by a feeling of propriety) that
he must see the patient once more.
`What! Another examination!’ t

 

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he mother exclaimed in horror.
`Oh, no – I merely need certain details, Princess.’
`Come this way.’
And the mother, followed by the doctor, went into the drawing room to Kitty. Wasted
and blushing, with a peculiar glitter in her eyes – a consequence of the shame she had
gone through, Kitty was standing in the middle of the room. When the doctor came in
she turned crimson, and her eyes filled with tears. All her illness and its treatment
seemed to her a thing so stupid – even funny! Treatment seemed to her as funny as
reconstructing the pieces of a broken vase. It was her heart that was broken. Why,
then, did they want to cure her with pills and powders? But she could not hurt her
mother – all the more so since her mother considered herself to blame.
`May I trouble you to sit down, Princess?’ the celebrated doctor said to her.
Smiling, he, sat down facing her, felt her pulse, and again started in with his tiresome
questions. She answered him, and suddenly, becoming angry, got up.
`You must pardon me, doctor – but really, this will lead us nowhere. You ask me the
same things, three times running.’
The celebrated doctor did not take umbrage.

`Sickly irritability,’ said he to t

 

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he Princess, when Kitty had left the room. `However, I
had finished….’
oke up at his usual hour, that is,
And the doctor scientifically defined to the Princess, as to an exceptionally clever
woman, the condition of the young Princess, and concluded by explaining the mode of
drinking the unnecessary waters. When the question of going abroad came up, the
doctor was plunged into profound considerations, as though deciding a weighty
problem. Finally his decision was given: they might go abroad, but must put no faith
in charlatans, but turn to him in everything.
It seemed as though some cheerful influence had sprung up after the doctor’s
departure. The mother grew more cheerful when she returned to her daughter, while
Kitty too pretended to be more cheerful. She had frequent, almost constant, occasions
to be pretending now.
`Really, I’m quite well, maman. But if you want to go abroad, let’s!’ she said, and,
trying to show that she was interested in the proposed trip, she began talking of the
preparations for the departure.
[Next Chapter] [Table of Contents]
[Previous Chapter] [Table of Contents]
Chapter 2
Right after the doctor Dolly arrived. She knew that the consultation was scheduled for
that day, and, despite the fact that she had only recently gotten up from her lying-in
(she had had another little girl at the end of the winter), despite her having enough
trouble and cares of her own, she had left her breast baby and an ailing girl to come
and learn Kitty’s fate, which was being decided that day.
`Well, what’s what?’ said she, entering into the drawing room, without taking off her
hat. `You’re all in good spirits. That means good news, then?’
An attempt was made to tell her what the doctor had said, but it proved that, even
though the doctor had talked coherently and long, it was utterly impossible to convey
what he had said. The only point of interest was that going abroad was definitely
decided upon.
Dolly could not help sighing. Her dearest friend, her sister, was going away. And her
oke up at his usual hour, that is,
life was far from gay. Her relations with Stepan Arkadyevich after their reconciliation
had become humiliating. The welding Anna had made proved not at all solid, and
family concord had broken down again at the same point. There was nothing definite,
but Stepan Arkadyevich was hardly ever at home; also, there was hardly ever any
money, and Dolly was constantly being to

Cheap air maxof infidelities, and by

now she drove them away from her, dreading the agony of jealousy she had already
experienced. The first explosion of jealousy, once lived through, could never return,
and even the discovery of infidelities could never affect her now as it had the first
time. Such a discovery now would only mean breaking up her family habits, and she
permitted him to deceive her, despising him – and still more herself – for this
weakness. Besides this, the cares of her large family were a constant torment to her:
now the nursing of her breast baby did not go well; now the nurse would leave, now
(as at the present time) one of the children would fall ill.
`Well, how’s everybody in your family?’ asked her mother.
`Ah, maman, we have enough trouble of our own. Lili has taken ill, and I’m afraid it’s
scarlatina. I have come here now to find out about Kitty, and then I shall shut myself
up entirely, if – God forbid – it really be scarlatina.’