Anna Karenina

‘Yes, yes, shh ...’ was Kitty’s only reply, as she rocked slightly and gently pressed down the plump arm, as if tied with a thread at the wrist, which Mitya kept waving weakly, now closing, now opening his eyes. This arm disturbed Kitty: she would have liked to kiss it but was afraid to, lest she waken the baby. The little arm finally stopped moving and the eyes closed. Only from time to time, going on with what he was doing, the baby raised his long, curling eyelashes slightly and glanced at his mother with his moist eyes, which seemed black in the semi-darkness. The nanny stopped waving and dozed off. From upstairs came the rumble of the old prince’s voice and Katavasov’s loud laughter.

‘They must have struck up a conversation without me,’ thought Kitty. ‘But all the same it’s vexing that Kostya’s not here. He must have gone to the apiary again. Though it’s sad that he goes there so often, I’m glad all the same. It diverts him. Now he’s begun to be more cheerful and better than in the spring. Then he was so gloomy and tormented, I began to be frightened for him. What a funny man!’ she whispered, smiling.

She knew what tormented her husband. It was his unbelief. Although, if she had been asked whether she supposed that in the future life he would perish for his unbelief, she would have had to agree that he would, his unbelief did not make her unhappy; and while she acknowledged that there was no salvation for an unbeliever, and she loved her husband’s soul more than anything in the world, she smiled as she thought about his unbelief and said to herself that he was funny.

‘Why has he been reading all sorts of philosophies for a whole year?’ she thought. ‘If it’s all written in those books, then he can understand them. If it’s not true, why read them? He says himself that he’d like to believe. Then why doesn’t he believe? Probably because he thinks so much. And he thinks so much because of his solitude. Alone, always alone. With us he can’t talk about everything. I think he’ll like having these guests, especially Katavasov. He likes discussing things with him,’ she thought, and at once turned her mind to where it would be best to put Katavasov - in a separate room, or together with Sergei Ivanovich. And here a thought suddenly came to her that made her start with agitation and even disturb Mitya, who gave her a stern look for it. ‘I don’t think the laundress has brought the washing yet, and the bed linen for guests has all been used. If I don’t see to it, Agafya Mikhailovna will give Sergei Ivanovich unwashed linen’ - and the very thought of it brought the blood rushing to Kitty’s face.

‘Yes, I’ll see to it,’ she decided and, going back to her previous thoughts, remembered that she had not finished thinking about something important, intimate, and she began to remember what it was. ‘Yes, Kostya’s an unbeliever,’ she remembered again with a smile.

‘So, he’s an unbeliever! Better let him stay that way than be like Mme Stahl, or like I wanted to be that time abroad. No, he’s not one to pretend.’

And a recent instance of his kindness appeared vividly to her. Two weeks ago Dolly had received a repentant letter from Stepan Arkadyich. He implored her to save his honour, to sell her estate in order to pay his debts. Dolly was in despair, hated her husband, despised him, pitied him, resolved to divorce him, to refuse him, but ended by agreeing to sell part of her estate. Then Kitty, with an involuntary smile of tenderness, remembered her husband’s embarrassment, his several awkward approaches to the matter in question, and how, having thought up the one and only way of helping Dolly without insulting her, he had suggested that Kitty give up her part of the estate, something she had not thought of before.

‘What kind of unbeliever is he? With his heart, with that fear of upsetting anyone, even a child! Everything for others, nothing for himself. Sergei Ivanovich simply thinks it’s Kostya’s duty to be his steward. His sister, too. Now Dolly and her children are in his care. And there are all these muzhiks who come to him every day as if it were his business to serve them.’

‘Yes, be just like your father, be just like him,’ she said, handing Mitya to the nanny and touching his cheek with her lips.

VIII