merely by giving them money. She herself teaches the boys Russian, so as to fit them for the gymnasium; and she has taken the little girl home with her. Well, you shall see her."
At this moment the carriage entered a courtyard. Stepan Arkadyevitch rang at the door before which they had stopped, and, without inquiring whether the mistress of the house was at home, went into the vestibule. Levin followed him, more and more uneasy as to the propriety of the step he was taking.
He saw, as he looked at himself in the glass, that he was very red in the face; but he knew that he was not tipsy. He went up the carpeted stairs after Oblonsky. On the second floor a servant received them with a bow; and Stepan Arkadyevitch, as if he were a connection, asked him, "Who is with Anna Arkadyevna?" and received the answer:—
"Mr. Vorkuyef."
"Where are they?"
"In the library."
They passed through a small, wainscoted dining-room, and walking along on the thick carpet they came to the library, dimly lighted by a single lamp with a huge shade. A reflector-lamp on the wall threw its rays on a full-length portrait of a woman, which instantly attracted Levin's attention. It was the portrait of Anna, painted by Mikhaïlof in Italy. While Stepan Arkadyevitch went on, and the man's voice, which had been heard, ceased speaking. Levin stood looking at the portrait which shone down from its frame, and he could not tear himself away. He forgot where he was; and, not hearing what was said, he kept his eyes fixed on the wonderful portrait. It was not a painting, but a living, beautiful woman, with her dark, curling hair, bare shoulders and arms, and a pen- sive half-smile on her lovely lips, and gazing at him triumphantly and yet tenderly from her entrancing eyes. Only because it was not alive did it seem more beautiful than life itself.
"Ya otchen rada—I am very glad," said a voice, suddenly, behind him, evidently addressed to him,—the
