LITMIR.BIZ

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Stahl, of whom some people said that she had tormented her husband to death, while others said that, by his immoral conduct, he had tormented her, had always been a sickly and ecstatic woman. When her first baby was born, she being already divorced from her husband, it died at once; and her relations, knowing how susceptible she was and fearing that this news might kill her, changed her dead child for one who had been born that night in the same house in Petersburg, the daughter of a chef at a palace. That child was Varenka. Madame Stahl learnt afterwards that Varenka was not her daughter, but continued to bring her up, the more readily because it happened that very soon Varenka had no relations left.

      Madame Stahl had lived continuously abroad in the South for more than ten years, hardly ever leaving her bed. Some people said that she had made for herself a position in Society by her pose as a philanthropic and highly religious woman; others said that she really was the highly moral being, living only to do good, that she seemed to be. No one knew what her religion was: Roman Catholic, Protestant, or Greek Orthodox, but one thing was certain, namely, that she was in friendly relations with the most highly-placed personages of all the churches and denominations.

      Varenka always lived with her abroad, and all who knew Madame Stahl knew and liked Mlle Varenka, as everybody called her.

      Having learnt all these particulars, the Princess saw nothing to object to in a friendship between her daughter and Varenka, especially as Varenka’s manners and education were excellent — she spoke French and English admirably, and, above all, she brought Madame Stahl’s regrets at having been deprived through illness of the pleasure of making the Princess’s acquaintance.

      When she had made Varenka’s acquaintance Kitty became more and more fascinated by her friend and found new virtues in her every day.

      The Princess, having heard that Varenka sang very well, invited her to come and sing to them one evening.

      ‘Kitty plays, and we have a piano, — though not a good one, — and you would give us great pleasure,’ said the Princess with her feigned smile, which was especially unpleasant to Kitty now because she noticed that Varenka did not wish to sing. Varenka, however, came in the evening and brought her music. The Princess had also invited Mary Evgenyevna with her daughter and the Colonel.

      Varenka did not seem at all abashed by the fact that strangers were present, and she went straight up to the piano. She could not accompany herself but she sang at sight admirably. Kitty, who played well, accompanied her.

      ‘You have an exceptional talent,’ said the Princess, after Varenka had sung her first song excellently.

      Mary Evgenyevna and her daughter thanked her and praised her singing.

      ‘See,’ said the Colonel, looking out of the window, ‘what an audience has assembled to hear you.’ Underneath the window a considerable crowd really had collected.

      ‘I am very glad it gives you pleasure,’ said Varenka simply. Kitty looked at her friend with pride. She was enraptured by her singing, her voice, her face, and above all by her manner, — by the fact that Varenka evidently attached no importance to her own singing and was quite indifferent to the praise she got; she only seemed to ask: ‘Have I to sing again or is it enough?’

      ‘If it were I,’ thought Kitty, ‘how proud I should feel! How glad I should be to see that crowd under the windows! But she is quite indifferent. She only wished not to refuse, and to give Mama pleasure. What is it in her? What gives her this power to disregard everything and to be so quietly independent? How I should like to know this, and to learn it from her!’ thought Kitty, gazing into the calm face. The Princess asked Varenka to sing again, and she sang another song just as truly, clearly, and well, standing straight at the piano, and beating time on it with her thin brown hand.

      The next piece in the music book was an Italian song. Kitty played the prelude and looked round at Varenka. ‘Let us skip this one,’ said Varenka, blushing. Kitty anxiously and inquiringly fixed her eyes on Varenka’s face. ‘Well then, another one,’ she said, hurriedly turning over the pages, immediately realizing that there was something particular connected with that song.

      ‘No,’ answered Varenka, putting her hand on the music and smiling. ‘No, let us sing that one.’ And she sang the piece just as calmly, coldly, and well as the previous ones.

      When she had finished everybody again thanked her and went to drink tea. But Kitty and Varenka went out into the little garden belonging to the house.

      ‘Am I not right, you have some memory attached to that song?’ asked Kitty. ‘Don’t tell me about it,’ she added hurriedly, ‘only say if I am right!’

      ‘Why not? I will tell you,’ said Varenka simply; and without waiting for a reply continued: ‘Yes, there is a memory attached to it and it was painful once. I loved a man and used to sing that song to him.’

      Kitty, deeply moved, gazed silently with wide-open eyes at Varenka.

      ‘I loved him and he loved me; but his mother would not have it, and he married another. He lives not far from us now, and I see him sometimes. You did not think that I too have had a romance?’ she said, and on her handsome face there flickered for an instant a spark of the fire which, Kitty felt, had once lighted up her whole being.

      ‘I — not think it? Why, if I were a man I could not have loved anyone else after knowing you. But I can’t understand how, to satisfy his mother, he could forget you and make you unhappy. He must be quite heartless.’

      ‘Oh no. He is a very good man, and I am not unhappy; on the contrary, I am very happy. Well, we shan’t sing any more to-day?’ she added, and went toward the house.

      ‘How good you are, how good!’ exclaimed Kitty, stopping her and kissing her. ‘If only I could be a little bit like you!’

      ‘Why should you be like anyone? You’re very good as you are,’ said Varenka, smiling her gentle, weary smile.

      ‘No, I am not at all good. But tell me … Wait a bit, let us sit down again,’ said Kitty, making Varenka sit down on a garden seat beside her. ‘Tell me, is it possible that you are not offended at the thought that a man despised your love? That he did not wish … ?’

      ‘But he did not despise it; I believe that he loved me, but he was an obedient son …’

      ‘Yes, but if it had not been his mother’s doing, but his own?’ said Kitty, feeling that she had given away her secret and that her face, burning with a blush of shame, had already betrayed her.

      ‘Then he would have behaved badly and I should not regret him,’ replied Varenka, evidently conscious that they were now speaking not about her but about Kitty.

      ‘But the humiliation?’ said Kitty. ‘One cannot forget the humiliation, one cannot,’ and she remembered the look she gave Vronsky at the ball, when the music stopped.

      ‘Where is the humiliation? You did not do anything wrong?’

      ‘Worse than wrong, shameful.’

      Varenka shook her head and put her hand on Kitty’s.

      ‘Shameful in what respect?’ she said. ‘You could not have told a man who was himself indifferent to you that you loved him?’

      ‘Of course not; I never said a single word, but he knew it. No, no; there are such things as looks and ways of behaving. If I live to be a hundred I shall never forget it.’

      ‘What does it matter? I don’t understand. The question is, do you love him now or not?’ said Varenka, calling everything by its plain name.

      ‘I hate him: and I cannot forgive myself.’

      ‘But what does it matter?’

      ‘The shame, the

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