"But she has a daughter: no doubt she's busy looking after her?"
said Levin.
"I believe you picture every woman simply as a female, _une
couveuse,_" said Stepan Arkadyevitch. "If she's occupied, it
must be with her children. No, she brings her up capitally, I
believe, but one doesn't hear about her. She's busy, in the
first place, with what she writes. I see you're smiling
ironically, but you're wrong. She's writing a children's book,
and doesn't talk about it to anyone, but she read it to me and I
gave the manuscript to Vorkuev...you know the publisher...and
he's an author himself too, I fancy. He understands those
things, and he says it's a remarkable piece of work. But are you
fancying she's an authoress?--not a bit of it. She's a woman
with a heart, before everything, but you'll see. Now she has a
little English girl with her, and a whole family she's looking
after."
"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.