Android Karenina (28 page)

“Oh dear!”
said Dolichka.

And
, thought Levin, loathe to float such a possibility within the hearing of Darya Alexandrovna and her her children, or even to Socrates,
can it be that there are other things the Ministry is hiding from us?

K
ITTY REPORTS IN HER LATEST
communiqué that there’s nothing she longs for so much as quiet and solitude,” Dolly said.

“And how is she—better?” Levin asked in agitation.

“Thank God, she’s quite well again. I never believed her lungs were affected.”

“Oh, I’m very glad!” said Levin, and Dolly fancied she saw something touching, helpless, in his face as he said this and looked silently into her face.

“Let me ask you, Konstantin Dmitrich,” she said then, smiling her kindly and rather mocking smile, “why is it you are angry with Kitty?”

“I? I’m not angry with her,” said Levin.

“Yes, you are angry. Why was it you did not come to see us or them when you were in Moscow?”

“Darya Alexandrovna,” he said, blushing up to the roots of his hair, “I wonder really that with your kind heart you don’t feel this. How it is you feel no pity for me, if nothing else, when you know . . .”

“What do I know?”

“You know I made an offer and that I was refused,” said Levin, and all the tenderness he had been feeling for Kitty a minute before was replaced by a feeling of anger for the slight he had suffered.

Dolly traded expressions of mock astonishment with Dolichka.

“What makes you suppose I know?”

“Because everybody knows it. . . .”

“That’s just where you are mistaken; I did not know it, though I had guessed it was so.”

“Well, now you know it.”

“All I knew was that something had happened that made Kitty dreadfully miserable, and that she begged me never to speak of it, and then they left to orbit Venus. And if she would not tell me, she would certainly not speak of it to anyone else. But what did pass between you? Tell me.”

“I have told you.”

“When was it?”

“When I was at their house the last time.”

“Do you know that,” said Darya Alexandrovna, “I am awfully, awfully sorry for her. You suffer only from pride. . . .”

“Perhaps so,” said Levin, “but—”

She interrupted him.

“But she, poor girl . . . I am awfully, awfully sorry for her. Now I see it all.”

“Well, Darya Alexandrovna, you must excuse me,” he said, getting up and signaling to Socrates his readiness to depart.

“No, wait a minute,” she said, clutching him by the sleeve, as tears came into her eyes. “Wait a minute, sit down. If I did not like you, and if I did not know you, as I do know you . . .”

The feeling that had seemed dead revived more and more, rose up and took possession of Levin’s heart.

“Yes, I understand it all now,” Dolly said. “You can’t understand it; for you men, who are free and make your own choice, it’s always clear
whom you love. But a girl’s in a position of suspense, with all a woman’s or maiden’s modesty, a girl who sees you men from afar, who takes everything on trust—a girl may have, and often has, such a feeling that she cannot tell what to say.”

“Yes, if the heart does not speak . . .”

“No, but I mean even when the heart
does
speak!
You
mean, you make an offer when your love is ripe or when the balance has completely turned between the two you are choosing from. But a girl is not asked. She is expected to make her choice, and yet she cannot choose, she can only answer ‘yes’ or ‘no.’”

Yes, to choose between me and Vronsky
, thought Levin, and the dead thing that had come to life within him died again, and weighed on his heart and set it aching. Socrates, with an uncharacteristic gesture of physical tenderness, placed a comforting arm across his master’s hunched and agitated shoulders as Levin recalled Kitty’s words. She had said:
“No, that cannot be. . . .
“

“Darya Alexandrovna,” he said dryly, “I appreciate your confidence in me, but I believe you are making a mistake. But whether I am right or wrong, that pride you so despise makes any thought of Katerina Alexandrovna out of the question for me, you understand, utterly out of the question.”

“I will only say one thing more,” Dolly said. “You know that I am speaking of my sister, whom I love as I love my own children. I don’t say she cared for you; all I meant to say is that her refusal at that moment proves nothing.”

“I don’t know!” said Levin, jumping up. “If you only knew how you are hurting me. It’s just as if a child of yours were dead, and they were to say to you: He might have been like this, or like that, and if you could travel back in time . . . but man cannot travel in time! The experiment has been attempted and abandoned, so what is the use of imagining!”

“How absurd you are!” said Dolly, looking with mournful tenderness at Levin’s excitement. “Yes, I see it all more and more clearly,” she went on
musingly. “So you won’t come to see us, then, when Kitty’s here?”

“No, I shan’t come. Of course I won’t avoid meeting Katerina Alexandrovna, but as far as I can, I will try to save her the annoyance of my presence.”

“You are very, very absurd,” Dolly repeated, looking with tenderness into his face.

Levin and Socrates said good-bye and drove away while Dolly and her beloved-companion bade them farewell from the front yard of the house at Ergushovo. Before she turned back into the house Dolly paused, her hands frozen at her hips, as she listened to a faint but distinct noise from the middle distance:

Tikka tikka tikka.

Tikka tikka tikka. Tikkatikkatikkatikka . . .

“Oh dear oh dear,”
said Dolichka, and Dolly murmured her agreement. “Oh dear, indeed.”

W
ELL, WHAT AM I GOING
to do with my life?” said Levin to Socrates the next morning, as they joined a team of peasants, delivering a freshly excavated batch of ore to the smeltworks. “How am I to set about it?”

He was trying to express to his Class III the range of ideas and emotions he had passed through since their visit to Dolly and her family. Socrates, employing his advanced circuits for logic, sorted all his master’s thoughts and feelings into a thought matrix for him. Thought Category A was the renunciation of his old life, of his utterly useless education. This renunciation gave Levin satisfaction, and was easy and simple. Thought Category B was a series of mental images related to the life he longed to
live now. The simplicity, the purity, the sanity of this life he felt clearly, and he was convinced he would find in it the content, the peace, and the dignity, of the lack of which he was so miserably conscious.

But Thought Category C turned upon the question of how to effect this transition from the old life to the new. And there nothing took clear shape for him. Socrates, in his efficient and meticulous way, rapidly divided and subdivided the possibilities:

POSSIBILITY 1. Have a wife?

POSSIBILITY 2. Have work and the necessity of work?

POSSIBILITY 3. Leave Provokovskoe?

POSSIBILITY 4. Buy land?

POSSIBILITY 5. Become a member of a peasant community?

POSSIBILITY 6. Marry a peasant girl?

“But how am I to set about such things?” Levin said confusedly in reply, and Socrates’ logistical circuits set busily back to work.

“Never mind, never mind,” Levin said then. “I’ll work it out later. One thing’s certain, this night has decided my fate. All my old dreams of home life were absurd.”

“Absurd,”
Socrates seconded reluctantly, not wishing to confirm such a dismal verdict, but unwilling also to contradict his master in such a mood.

“It’s all ever so much simpler and better to . . . to . . .”

“Master?”

“How beautiful!” Levin exclaimed, and Socrates tilted back his head unit to take in the sight: a daylight meteor shower, with dozens of golden-red stars dancing in their turns across the clear blue sky. “How exquisite a sight on this exquisite morning! And when and how do such things come to be! Just now I looked at the sky, and there was nothing in it—-just the clouds and the gentle glow of the sun. And now, this display of stunning beauty! Yes, and so imperceptibly too my views of
life changed!”

Shrinking from the cold, Levin walked rapidly, looking at the ground. “What’s that? Someone’s coming,” he said suddenly, catching the tinkle of bells, and lifting his head.

“At forty paces, master . . . there . . .”

Indeed, at forty paces, a carriage harnessed to a four-treaded Puller was driving toward him along the grassy road on which he was walking. The treads were shallow, designed primarily for city travel rather than the countryside, but the dexterous Class II driver held a careful hand on the shaft, so that the treads stayed on the smooth part of the road.

This was all Levin noticed, and without wondering who it could be, he gazed absently at the coach.

In the coach was an old lady dozing in one corner, and at the window, evidently only just awake, sat, perfectly still, a young girl holding in both hands the ribbons of a white cap. With a face entirely absent of thought or attention she stared out the window of the carriage. Levin realized that this girl was hibernating, in the state of chemically induced suspended animation into which ill people are commonly placed to better bear the rigors of the journey to and from an orbital.

At the moment Levin realized upon whom he was gazing, her subdermal anesthesia wore off, and slowly she began to wake. Her eyes blinked once, and then again, and then fell shut—but her face was alive again, full of light and thought, full of a subtle, complex inner life that was remote from Levin.

He watched, wonderingly, as the eyes—such familiar eyes—slowly opened again, like flowers newly budding. And then she recognized him, and her face, in the hazy glow of gradually returning consciousness, lighted up with wondering delight.

He could not be mistaken. There were no other eyes like those in the world. There was only one creature in the world who could concentrate for him all the brightness and meaning of life. It was she. It was
Kitty. He understood that she was driving to Ergushovo from the Grav station. And everything that had been stirring Levin during that sleepless night, all the resolutions he had made, all the branching algorithmic calculations that Socrates had produced, all vanished at once. He recalled with horror his dreams of marrying a peasant girl. Only there, in the carriage that had crossed over to the other side of the road, and was rapidly disappearing, only there could he find the solution to the riddle of his life, which had weighed so agonizingly upon him of late.

She did not look out again. The sound of the carriage-treads faded; the drone of the II/Driver could scarcely be heard. The barking of dogs showed the carriage had reached the village, and all that was left was the empty fields all around, the village in front, and he and Socrates wandering lonely along the deserted high road.

He glanced at the sky, expecting again to see the meteor shower, that miracle of blazing torches pirouetting though the daylight. But there was nothing in the sky; there, in the remote heights above, a mysterious change had been accomplished. The sky was empty of falling stars; it had grown blue and bright; and with the same softness, but with the same remoteness, it met his questioning gaze.

“No,” he said to Socrates, “however good that life of simplicity and toil may be . . .”

“You cannot go back to it.”

“No, dear friend, I cannot. I love
her.
”

A
LEXEI ALEXANDROVICH’S
singular beloved-companion, his dread Face, had been biding its time. Ever since its machine consciousness had first flickered into existence, it had lurked, a creature of
the shadows, flitting in the recesses of Karenin’s mind, growing, evolving, gaining strength, gaining power.

Now its moment had come.

When, returning from the Cull, Anna had informed him of her relations with Vronsky, and immediately afterward—when, as their carriage weathered the emotion bombs, she had burst into tears, hiding her face in her hands—Alexei Alexandrovich was aware immediately of a crying out in his breast of pure human emotion, of the abiding empathy he still harbored for this woman he had loved for so long; it brought to him a rush of that emotional disturbance always produced in him by tears. But in the next instant, that burst of humane feeling in his breast was countered by a searing stream of invective from the Face, which demanded in a cold, vicious voice, speaking out in his mind, that he silence his tears and summon his manful qualities.

BE MORE OF METAL THAN OF FLESH, ALEXEI ALEXANDROVICH
, the Face had exhorted him, and so he had, stiffening his spine and keeping his emotions carefully controlled. He tried to suppress every manifestation of life in himself, and so neither stirred nor looked at her. This was what had caused that strange expression of deathlike rigidity in his face, which had so impressed Anna.

When they reached the house he helped her to get out of the carriage, and making an effort to master himself, took leave of her with his usual urbanity; he said that tomorrow he would let her know his decision.

His wife’s words, confirming his worst suspicions, had sent a cruel pang to the heart of Alexei Alexandrovich. That pang was intensified by the strange feeling of physical pity triggered by her tears, and intensified all the more by the harsh, mocking laughter of the Face, laughter directed as much at his pity as at her tears.

But later, when he was all alone, Alexei Alexandrovich, to his surprise and delight, felt complete relief both from this pity and from the doubts and agonies of jealousy. He felt strong and powerful, and the Face was determined to feed those feelings, just as a master throws scraps of
bloody meat to his dog.

NO HONOR. NO HEART. NO RELIGION
, spat the Face, and Karemn bitterly agreed.