by Leo Tolstoy
'I didn't know you were going. Why are you going?' she said, letting fall the hand that was already holding the post. And irrepressible joy and animation shone on her face.
'Why am I going?' he repeated, looking straight into her eyes. 'You know I am going in order to be where you are,' he said, 'I cannot do otherwise.'
And just then, as if overcoming an obstacle, the wind dumped snow from the roof of the carriage, blew some torn-off sheet of iron about, and from ahead a low train whistle howled mournfully and drearily. All the terror of the blizzard seemed still more beautiful to her now. He had said the very thing that her soul desired but that her reason feared. She made no reply, and he saw a struggle in her face.
'Forgive me if what I have said is unpleasant for you,' he said submissively.
He spoke courteously, respectfully, but so firmly and stubbornly that for a long time she was unable to make any reply.
'What you're saying is bad, and I beg you, if you are a good man, to forget it, as I will forget it,' she said at last.
'Not one of your words, not one of your movements will I ever forget, and I cannot...'
'Enough, enough!' she cried out, trying in vain to give a stern expression to her face, into which he peered greedily. And, placing her hand on the cold post, she went up the steps and quickly entered the vestibule of the carriage. But in this little vestibule she stopped, pondering in her imagination what had just happened. Though she could remember neither his words nor her own, she sensed that this momentary conversation had brought them terribly close, and this made her both frightened and happy. She stood for a few seconds, went into the carriage, and took her seat. The magical, strained condition that had tormented her at the beginning not only renewed itself, but grew stronger and reached a point where she feared that something wound too tight in her might snap at any moment. She did not sleep all night. But in that strain and those reveries that filled her imagination there was nothing unpleasant or gloomy; on the contrary, there was something joyful, burning and exciting. Towards morning Anna dozed off in her seat, and when she woke up it was already white, bright, and the train was pulling into Petersburg. At once thoughts of her home, her husband, her son, and the cares of the coming day and those to follow surrounded her.
In Petersburg, as soon as the train stopped and she got off, the first face that caught her attention was that of her husband. 'Ah, my God! what's happened with his ears?' she thought, looking at his cold and imposing figure and especially struck now by the cartilage of his ears propping up the brim of his round hat. Seeing her, he came to meet her, composing his lips into his habitual mocking smile and looking straight at her with his big weary eyes. Some unpleasant feeling gnawed at her heart as she met his unwavering and weary gaze, as if she had expected him to look different. She was especially struck by the feeling of dissatisfaction with herself that she experienced on meeting him. This was an old, familiar feeling, similar to that state of pretence she experienced in her relations with her husband; but previously she had not noticed it, while now she was clearly and painfully aware of it.
'Yes, as you see, your tender husband, tender as in the second year of marriage, is burning with desire to see you,' he said in his slow, high voice and in the tone he almost always used with her, a tone in mockery of someone who might actually mean what he said.
'Is Seryozha well?' she asked.
'Is that all the reward I get for my ardour?' he said. 'He's well, he's well...'
XXXI
Vronsky did not even try to fall asleep all that night. He sat in his seat, now staring straight ahead of him, now looking over the people going in and out, and if he had struck and troubled strangers before by his air of imperturbable calm, he now seemed still more proud and self-sufficient. He looked at people as if they were things. A nervous young man across from him, who served on the circuit court, came to hate him for that look. The young man lit a cigarette from his, tried talking to him, and even jostled him, to let him feel that he was not a thing but a human being, but Vronsky went on looking at him as at a lamppost, and the young man grimaced, feeling that he was losing his self-possession under the pressure of this non-recognition of himself as a human being and was unable to fall asleep because of it.
Vronsky did not see anything or anybody. He felt himself a king, not because he thought he had made an impression on Anna - he did not believe that yet - but because the impression she had made on him gave him happiness and pride.
What would come of it all, he did not know and did not even consider. He felt that all his hitherto dissipated and dispersed forces were gathered and directed with terrible energy towards one blissful goal. And he was happy in that. He knew only that he had told her the truth, that he was going where she was, that the whole happiness of life, the sole meaning of life, he now found in seeing and hearing her. And when he got off the train at Bologoye for a drink of seltzer water, and saw Anna, his first words involuntarily told her just what he thought. And he was glad he had said it to her, that she now knew it and was thinking about it. He did not sleep all night. Returning to his carriage, he kept running through all the attitudes in which he had seen her, all her words, and in his imagination floated pictures of the possible future, making his heart stand still.
When he got off the train in Petersburg he felt animated and fresh after his sleepless night, as after a cold bath. He stopped by his carriage, waiting for her to get out. 'One more time,' he said to himself, smiling involuntarily, 'I'll see her walk, her face; she'll say something, turn her head, look, perhaps smile.' But even before seeing her, he saw her husband, whom the stationmaster was courteously conducting through the crowd. 'Ah, yes, the husband!' Only now did Vronsky understand clearly for the first time that the husband was a person connected with her. He knew she had a husband, but had not believed in his existence and fully believed in it only when he saw him, with his head, his shoulders, his legs in black trousers; and especially when he saw this husband calmly take her arm with a proprietary air.
Seeing Alexei Alexandrovich with his fresh Petersburg face[41], his sternly self-confident figure, his round hat and slightly curved back, he believed in him and experienced an unpleasant feeling, like that of a man suffering from thirst who comes to a spring and finds in it a dog, a sheep or a pig who has both drunk and muddied the water. The gait of Alexei Alexandrovich, swinging his whole pelvis and his blunt feet, was especially offensive to Vronsky. Only for himself did he acknowledge the unquestionable right to love her. But she was still the same, and her appearance still affected him in the same way, physically reviving, arousing his soul, and filling it with happiness. He told his German footman, who came running from second class, to take his things and go, and he himself went up to her. He saw the first meeting of husband and wife and, with the keen-sightedness of a man in love, noticed signs of the slight constraint with which she talked to her husband. 'No, she does not and cannot love him,' he decided to himself.
As he came up to Anna Arkadyevna from behind, he noticed with joy that she, sensing his approach, looked around and, recognizing him, turned back to her husband.
'Did you have a good night?' he said, bowing to her and her husband together, and giving Alexei Alexandrovich a chance to take this bow to his own account and recognize him or not, as he wished.
'Very good, thank you,' she replied.
Her face seemed tired, and there was none of that play of animation in it which begged to come out now in her smile, now in her eyes; yet for a moment, as she glanced at him, something flashed in her eyes and, although this fire went out at once, he was happy in that moment. She looked at her husband to see whether he knew Vronsky. Alexei Alexandrovich was looking at Vronsky with displeasure, absently trying to recall who he was. Vronsky's calm and self-confidence here clashed like steel against stone with the cold self-confidence of Alexei Alexandrovich.
'Count Vronsky,' said Anna.
'Ah! We're acquainted, I believe,' Alexei Alexandrovich said with indifference
, offering his hand. 'You went with the mother and came back with the son,' he said, articulating distinctly, as if counting out each word. 'You must be returning from leave?' he said and, without waiting for an answer, addressed his wife in his bantering tone: 'So, were there many tears shed in Moscow over the parting?'
By addressing his wife in this way, he made it clear to Vronsky that he wished to be left alone, and, turning to him, he touched his hat; but Vronsky addressed Anna Arkadyevna:
'I hope to have the honour of calling on you,' he said.
Alexei Alexandrovich looked at Vronsky with his weary eyes.
'I'd be delighted,' he said coldly, 'we receive on Mondays.' Then, having dismissed Vronsky altogether, he said to his wife: 'And how good it is that I had precisely half an hour to meet you and that I have been able to show you my tenderness,' continuing in the same bantering tone.
'You emphasize your tenderness far too much for me to value it greatly,' she said in the same bantering tone, involuntarily listening to the sound of Vronsky's footsteps behind them. 'But what do I care?' she thought and began asking her husband how Seryozha had spent the time without her.
'Oh, wonderfully! Mariette says he was very nice and ... I must upset you ... didn't miss you, unlike your husband. But merci once again, my dear for the gift of one day. Our dear samovar will be delighted.' (He called the celebrated Countess Lydia Ivanovna 'samovar', because she was always getting excited and heated up about things.) 'She's been asking about you. And you know, if I may be so bold as to advise you, you might just go to see her today. She takes everything to heart so. Now, besides all her other troubles, she's concerned with reconciling the Oblonskys.'
Countess Lydia Ivanovna was her husband's friend and the centre of one of the circles of Petersburg society with which Anna was most closely connected through her husband.
'I did write to her.'
'But she needs everything in detail. Go, if you're not tired, my dear. Well, Kondraty will take you in the carriage, and I'm off to the committee. I won't be alone at dinner any more,' Alexei Alexandrovich went on, no longer in a bantering tone. 'You wouldn't believe how I've got used to ...'
And, pressing her hand for a long time, with a special smile, he helped her into the carriage.
XXXII
The first person to meet Anna at home was her son. He came running down the stairs to her, despite the cries of the governess, and with desperate rapture shouted: 'Mama, mama!' Rushing to her, he hung on her neck. 'I told you it was mama!' he cried to the governess. 'I knew it!' And the son, just like the husband, produced in Anna a feeling akin to disappointment. She had imagined him better than he was in reality, she had to descend into reality to enjoy him as he was. But he was charming even as he was, with his blond curls, blue eyes and full, shapely legs in tight-fitting stockings. Anna experienced almost a physical pleasure in the feeling of his closeness and caress, and a moral ease when she met his simple-hearted, trusting and loving eyes and heard his naive questions. She took out the presents that Dolly's children had sent and told her son about the girl Tanya in Moscow and how this Tanya knew how to read and even taught the other children. And am I worse than she is?' asked Seryozha.
'For me you're the best in the world.'
'I know that,' said Seryozha, smiling.
Before Anna had time to have coffee, Countess Lydia Ivanovna was announced. Countess Lydia Ivanovna was a tall, stout woman with an unhealthy yellow complexion and beautiful, pensive dark eyes. Anna loved her, but today she saw her as if for the first time with all her shortcomings.
'Well, my friend, did you bear the olive branch?' Countess Lydia Ivanovna asked as soon as she came into the room.
'Yes, it's all over, but it was not as important as we thought,' Anna replied. 'Generally, my belle-soeur is too headstrong.'
But Countess Lydia Ivanovna, who was interested in everything that did not concern her, had the habit of never listening to what interested her. She interrupted Anna:
'Yes, there is much woe and wickedness in the world - but I'm so exhausted today.'
'What's wrong?' asked Anna, trying to repress a smile.
'I'm beginning to weary of breaking lances for the truth in vain, and sometimes I go quite to pieces. The business with the little sisters' (this was a philanthropic, religious and patriotic institution) 'would have gone splendidly, but it's impossible to do anything with these gentlemen,' Countess Lydia Ivanovna added in mock submission to her fate. 'They seized on the idea, distorted it, and now discuss it in such a petty, worthless fashion. Two or three people, your husband among them, understand the full significance of this business, but the others only demean it. Yesterday Pravdin wrote to me ...'
Pravdin was a well-known Pan-Slavist[42] who lived abroad. Countess Lydia Ivanovna proceeded to recount the contents of his letter.
Then she told of further troubles and schemes against the cause of Church unity and left hurriedly, because that afternoon she still had to attend a meeting of some society and then of the Slavic committee.
'All this was there before; but why didn't I notice it before?' Anna said to herself. 'Or is she very irritated today? In fact, it's ridiculous: her goal is virtue, she's a Christian, yet she's angry all the time, and they're all her enemies, and they're all enemies on account of Christianity and virtue.'
After Countess Lydia Ivanovna had left, an acquaintance came, the wife of a director, and told her all the news about town. At three o'clock she also left, promising to come for dinner. Alexei Alexandrovich was at the ministry. Finding herself alone, Anna spent the time before dinner sitting with her son while he ate (he dined separately), putting her things in order and reading and answering the notes and letters that had accumulated on her desk.
Her agitation and the sense of groundless shame she had experienced during the journey disappeared completely. In the accustomed conditions of her life she again felt herself firm and irreproachable.
She recalled with astonishment her state yesterday. 'What happened? Nothing. Vronsky said a foolish thing, which it was easy to put an end to, and I replied as I ought to have done. To speak of it with my husband is unnecessary and impossible. To speak of it - would mean giving importance to something that has none.' She recalled how she had told him of a near declaration that one of her husband's young subordinates had made to her in Petersburg, and how Alexei Alexandrovich had replied that, living in society, any woman may be subject to such things, but that he fully trusted her tact and would never allow either himself or her to be demeaned by jealousy. 'So there's no reason to tell him? Yes, thank God, and there's nothing to tell,' she said to herself.
XXXIII
Alexei Alexandrovich returned from the ministry at four o'clock, but, as often happened, had no time to go to her room. He proceeded to his study to receive the waiting petitioners and sign some papers brought by the office manager. At dinner (three or four people always dined with the Karenins) there were Alexei Alexandrovich's elderly female cousin, the department director and his wife and a young man recommended to Alexei Alexandrovich at work. Anna came out to the drawing room to entertain them. At exactly five o'clock, before the Peter-the-Great bronze clock struck for the fifth time, Alexei Alexandrovich came out in a white tie and a tailcoat with two stars, because he had to leave right after dinner. Every minute of Alexei Alexandrovich's life was occupied and scheduled. And in order to have time to do what he had to do each day, le held to the strictest punctuality. 'Without haste and without rest' was his motto. He entered the room, bowed to everyone, and hastily sat down, smiling at his wife.
'Yes, my solitude is ended. You wouldn't believe how awkward' (he emphasized the word awkward) 'it is to dine alone.'
