And something else happened too. Ever since he was little, his father had felt that he wasn’t speaking to his son, but to a fictitious child, when he looked at him. Partly out of politeness, and even more out of fear, Sergei pretended to be that imaginary child. Then, when Anna died, Sergei became that child, the one he thought his father believed he was, a fictitious child. Slowly he became a man, and although he tried his best not to be a poet, perhaps something of the poet’s nervous anxiety remained.

5. The Tsar’s Letter

5. The Tsar’s Letter

The letter that Sergei and Claudia Karenin receive from the tsar’s desk that day announces the emperor’s desire to possess the portrait of Anna Karenina by the “great master” Mikhailov, which, according to Karenin’s will, belongs to Sergei.

Mikhailov painted it on commission at Vronsky’s behest, when the lovers were living in Italy. The painter finished the canvas quickly (he was in a hurry to pay some household debts), but that didn’t diminish its quality. It was magnificent, or so it was rumored, but no one apart from Tolstoy and a handful of others had had the opportunity to view it at leisure. And that was nearly three decades ago, because after Vronsky’s death, Countess Vronskaya (Vronsky’s mother) took the portrait down and had it stored facing the wall. And that’s how it remained, facing a wall all this time, except on one occasion.

The note from the desk of the tsar ends by announcing his intention to acquire the portrait for the collection at the New Hermitage. Succinct, it’s more an order than a request.

6. In the Theater

6. In the Theater

The Karenins’ carriage stops in front of the Mariinsky Theater. The streetlamps illuminate the tiny, quivering snowflakes. Unlike the ones that had glittered in the morning sunlight, these acquire the dull, dusky colors of trampled snow as they fall, a muddy mess churned up by wheels, horses’ hooves, sleigh runners, drops of kerosene and motor oil, and the tread of pedestrians. Claudia gets out, her eyes on the ground; the mess makes her heart sink. We shouldn’t have come, she thinks, and her eyes cloud and glaze over, as if a film of dirty snow has covered them, too, as if she’s seen the hangman pass by.

“It’s January 8, 1905.” Why is she saying the date aloud, is it to disguise her thoughts?

Anya repeats after her, “1905, 1905, I like 1905!”

Sergei looks up at the streetlamps. The light disperses the negative thoughts weighing him down. Anya scans the ground, looking for a place to step, realizing that she’s going to ruin her shoes. “It looks as though a crowd has passed through,” she says. “You’d think Pavlova was performing!”