Anya is deeply chagrined by the donation of the portrait of Anna Karenina. She doesn’t remember her mother, despite trying hard to find a picture of her in her memory. She can remember her wet nurse clearly, as well as Sergei, whom she adored throughout her childhood. The sale of the portrait shouldn’t upset her, but for Anya, it’s her brother’s worst betrayal.

“Why? Why is it doing this to me? Why do I feel this way? What does it matter? I didn’t even know the woman! But she’s my mother. Why … ? It shouldn’t matter to me!”

She’s in a terrible state of mind. She rings the bell for Valeria to distract herself. She can’t bear to go out—she knows today is the day the portrait will be collected; she has no desire whatsoever to run into the cortege.

“Valeria, come talk to me. Tell me about your husband.”

“He’s on the submarine Potemkin, under the sea.”

“I should be so lucky!”

“I wouldn’t think so. They feed them rotten meat, it’s revolting.”

“How do you know that?”

Valeria blushes when she answers.

“The telegraphist sends me messages.”

“Oh! Why are you blushing, Valeria. Is he very handsome?”

“Not like my Matyushenko!”

“And why is the telegraphist writing you?”

Valeria turns red again.

“I can’t tell you that, mademoiselle.”

“Oh, all right, let’s change the subject. Shall I teach you some more French words today?”

Anya sighs. She really would like to be under the sea. She recites three words in French, but they sound wrong, unintelligible. Anya just can’t concentrate on anything.

“Would it be all right with you, mademoiselle, if we got out the embroidery?”

Valeria sets down the sewing box, full of colored thread, buttons, pieces of lace. Anya’s eyes flit from one to another. Her gaze loses focus. Anya thinks, I want to be someone else, I want to be someone else. In her mind’s eye, she sees an underwater landscape—a forest of coral, caves, a giant pearl, a whale, a terrifying squid…. The contents of the sewing box evoke a whole Vernean world.

43. The Wind

43. The Wind

So the wind is not blowing. Inside the palace car, Piotr holds the blue box and the letters under his left arm while he steadies a corner of the grand case that protects the portrait of Anna Karenina with his right. The Karenins’ carriage follows thirty feet behind, Giorgi at the reins, the assistant curator of the Hermitage and Sergei’s personal secretary, Priteshko, inside.

Piotr is singing. It’s the first time he’s traveled in a motorcar. He’s so excited he invents a little ditty:

With Anna, with Anna

With Anna Karenina,

Flying, flying

In a Mercedes

With Anna, with Anna.