by Leo Tolstoy
'What sort of women!' said Vronsky, recalling the Frenchwoman and the actress with whom the two men mentioned had had affairs.
'So much the worse. The firmer a woman's position in society, the worse it is. It's the same as not only dragging the fardeau around in your arms, but tearing it away from someone else.'
'You've never loved,' Vronsky said softly, gazing before him and thinking of Anna.
'Maybe not. But remember what I've told you. And also: women are all more material than men. We make something enormous out of love, and they're always terre-a-terre.*
'Right away, right away!' he said to a footman who came in. But the footman had not come to call them again, as he thought. The footman brought a note for Vronsky.
'A man brought it from Princess Tverskoy.'
Vronsky unsealed the letter and flushed.
'I have a headache, I'm going home,' he said to Serpukhovskoy.
'Goodbye, then. Do you give me carte blanche?'
'We'll talk later, I'll look you up in Petersburg.'
XXII
It was past five o'clock, and therefore, so as not to be late and at the same time not to take his own horses, which everyone knew, Vronsky took Yashvin's hired cab and ordered the driver to go as fast as he could.
* Burden.
* Down to earth.
The old four-seater coach was roomy. He sat in the corner, stretched his legs out on the front seat and fell to thinking.
The vague awareness of the clarity his affairs had been brought to, the vague recollection of the friendship and flattery of Serpukhovskoy, who considered him a necessary man, and, above all, the anticipation of the meeting - all united into one general, joyful feeling of life. This feeling was so strong that he smiled involuntarily. He put his feet down, placed one leg across the knee of the other and, taking it in his hand, felt the resilient calf, hurt the day before in his fall, and, leaning back, took several deep breaths.
'Good, very good!' he said to himself. Before, too, he had often experienced the joyful awareness of his body, but never had he so loved himself, his own body, as now. He enjoyed feeling that slight pain in his strong leg, enjoyed feeling the movement of his chest muscles as he breathed. That same clear and cold August day which had had such a hopeless effect on Anna, to him seemed stirringly invigorating and refreshed his face and neck that tingled from the dousing. The smell of brilliantine on his moustache seemed especially enjoyable to him in that fresh air. Everything he saw through the coach window, everything in that cold, clean air, in that pale light of sunset, was as fresh, cheerful and strong as himself: the rooftops glistening in the rays of the sinking sun, the sharp outlines of fences and the corners of buildings, the figures of the rare passers-by and the carriages they met, the motionless green of the trees and grass, the fields with regularly incised rows of potatoes, the slanting shadows cast by the houses, trees, and bushes and the rows of potatoes themselves. Everything was as beautiful as a pretty landscape just finished and coated with varnish.
'Faster, faster!' he said to the cabby. Leaning out the window, he took a three-rouble bill from his pocket and handed it to the driver as he turned. The cabby's hand felt for something by the lantern, the whip whistled, and the carriage rolled quickly along the smooth road.
'I need nothing, nothing but this happiness,' he thought, gazing at the ivory knob of the bell between the windows and imagining Anna as he had seen her the last time. 'And the further it goes, the more I love her. Here's the garden of Vrede's government country house. Where is she? Where? How? Why did she arrange the meeting here and write it in Betsy's letter?' he wondered only now; but there was no more time for thinking. He stopped the coach before it reached the avenue, opened the door, jumped out while the carriage was still moving and walked into the avenue leading to the house. There was no one in the avenue; but looking to the right, he saw her. Her face was covered with a veil, but with joyful eyes he took in the special motion of her gait, peculiar to her alone, the curve of her shoulders, and the poise of her head, and immediately it was as if an electric current ran through his body. He felt his own self with new force, from the resilient movements of his legs to the movements of his lungs as he breathed, and something tickled his lips.
Coming up to him, she pressed his hand firmly.
'You're not angry that I sent for you? It was necessary for me to see you,' she said; and the serious and stern set of her lips, which he could see behind the veil, immediately changed his state of mind.
'I, angry! But how did you come, why here?'
'Never mind,' she said, putting her hand on his. 'Come, we must talk.'
He understood that something had happened, that this meeting would not be joyful. In her presence he had no will of his own: not knowing the reason for her anxiety, he already felt that this same anxiety had involuntarily communicated itself to him.
'What is it? What?' he asked, pressing her arm with his elbow and trying to read her thoughts in her face.
She walked a few steps in silence, gathering her courage, and suddenly stopped.
'I didn't tell you yesterday,' she began, breathing rapidly and heavily, 'that on the way home with Alexei Alexandrovich I told him everything ... I said that I could not be his wife, that... I told him everything.'
He listened to her, involuntarily leaning his whole body towards her, as if wishing in this way to soften the difficulty of her situation. But as soon as she had said it, he suddenly straightened up and his face acquired a proud and stern expression.
'Yes, yes, it's better, a thousand times better! I understand how difficult it was,' he said.
But she was not listening to his words, she was reading his thoughts in the expression of his face. She could not have known that his expression reflected the first thought that occurred to him - that a duel was now inevitable. The thought of a duel had never entered her head and therefore she explained this momentary expression of sternness differently.
Having received her husband's letter, she already knew in the depths of her soul that everything would remain as before, that she would be unable to scorn her position, to leave her son and unite herself with her lover. The morning spent at Princess Tverskoy's had confirmed her still more in that. But all the same this meeting was extremely important for her. She hoped it would change their situation and save her. If at this news he should say to her resolutely, passionately, without a moment's hesitation: 'Abandon everything and fly away with me!' - she would leave her son and go with him. But the news did not produce in him what she expected: he only seemed insulted by something.
'It wasn't the least bit difficult. It got done by itself,' she said irritably. 'Here ...' She took her husband's letter from her glove.
'I understand, I understand,' he interrupted, taking the letter without reading it and trying to calm her. 'I wished for one thing, I asked for one thing - to break up this situation, in order to devote my life to your happiness.'
'Why are you telling me that?' she said. 'Could I possibly doubt it? If I did ...'
'Who's that coming?' Vronsky said suddenly, pointing at two ladies coming towards them. 'Maybe they know us,' and he hastened to turn down a side walk, drawing her after him.
'Oh, I don't care!' she said. Her lips were trembling. And it seemed to him that her eyes looked at him with a strange spite from behind the veil. 'As I said, that's not the point, I cannot doubt that, but here is what he writes to me. Read it.' She stopped again.
Again, as in the first moment, at the news of her break with her husband, Vronsky, while reading the letter, involuntarily yielded to the natural impression aroused in him by his attitude towards the insulted husband. Now, as he held his letter in his hands, he involuntarily pictured to himself the challenge he would probably find today or tomorrow at his place, and the duel itself, during which he would stand, with the same cold and proud expression that was now on his face, having fired into the air, awaiting the insulted husband's shot. And at once there flashed in his head the
thought of what Serpukhovskoy had just said to him and what he himself had thought that morning - that it was better not to bind himself - and he knew that he could not tell her this thought.
Having read the letter, he raised his eyes to her, and there was no firmness in his look. She understood at once that he had already thought it over to himself. She knew that whatever he might tell her, he would not say everything he thought. And she understood that her last hope had been disappointed. This was not what she had expected.
'You see what sort of man he is,' she said in a trembling voice, 'he . ..'
'Forgive me, but I'm glad of it,' Vronsky interrupted. 'For God's sake, let me finish,' he added, his eyes begging her to give him time to explain his words. 'I'm glad, because it cannot, it simply cannot remain as he suggests.'
'Why not?' Anna asked, holding back her tears, obviously no longer attaching any significance to what he was going to say. She felt that her fate was decided.
Vronsky wanted to say that after the duel, in his opinion inevitable, this could not go on, but he said something else.
'It cannot go on. I hope you will leave him now. I hope,' he became confused and blushed, 'that you will allow me to arrange and think over our life. Tomorrow ...' he began.
She did not let him finish.
'And my son?' she cried out. 'Do you see what he writes? I must leave him, and I cannot and will not do it.'
'But for God's sake, which is better? To leave your son or to go on in this humiliating situation?'
'Humiliating for whom?'
'For everyone and most of all for you.'
'You say "humiliating" ... don't say it. Such words have no meaning for me,' she said in a trembling voice. She did not want him to say what was not true now. All she had left was his love, and she wanted to love him. 'You understand that from the day I loved you everything was changed for me. For me there is one thing only - your love. If it is mine, I feel myself so high, so firm, that nothing can be humiliating for me. I'm proud of my position, because ... proud of ... proud ...' She did not finish saying what she was proud of. Tears of shame and despair stifled her voice. She stopped and burst into sobs.
He also felt something rising in his throat, tickling in his nose, and for the first time in his life he felt himself ready to cry. He could not have said precisely what moved him so; he pitied her, and he felt that he could not help her, and at the same time he knew that he was to blame for her unhappiness, that he had done something bad.
'Is divorce impossible?' he said weakly. She shook her head without replying. 'Can't you take your son and leave him anyway?'
'Yes, but it all depends on him. Now I must go to him,' she said drily. Her feeling that everything would remain as before had not deceived her.
'I'll be in Petersburg on Tuesday, and everything will be decided.' 'Yes,' she said. 'But let's not talk about it any more.' Anna's carriage, which she had sent away and told to come to the gate of Vrede's garden, drove up. She took leave of him and went home.
XXIII
On Monday there was the usual meeting of the commission of June 2nd. Alexei Alexandrovich entered the meeting room, greeted the members and the chairman as usual, and took his seat, placing his hand on the papers prepared before him. Among these papers were the references he needed and the outline of the statement he intended to make. However, he did not need any references. He remembered everything and found it unnecessary to go over in his memory what he planned to say. He knew that when the time came and he saw the face of his adversary before him, vainly trying to assume an indifferent expression, his speech would flow of itself better than he could now prepare it. He felt that the content of his speech was so great that every word would be significant. Meanwhile, listening to the usual report, he had a most innocent, inoffensive look. No one, looking at his white hands with their swollen veins, their long fingers so tenderly touching both edges of the sheet of white paper lying before him, and his head bent to one side with its expression of fatigue, would have thought that from his mouth there would presently pour words that would cause a terrible storm, would make the members shout, interrupting each other, and the chairman call for order. When the report was over, Alexei Alexandrovich announced in his quiet, thin voice that he was going to give some of his reflections on the subject of the settlement of racial minorities. All attention turned to him. He cleared his throat and, without looking at his adversary, but choosing, as he always did when making a speech, the first person sitting in front of him - a mild little old man, who never expressed any opinion in the commission - began to expound his considerations. When it came to the fundamental and organic law, the adversary jumped up and began to object. Stremov, also a member of the commission and also cut to the quick, began to justify himself - and the meeting generally became stormy; but Alexei Alexandrovich triumphed, and his proposal was accepted; three new commissions were appointed, and the next day in a certain Petersburg circle there was no other talk than of this meeting. Alexei Alexandrovich's success was even greater than he had expected.
The next morning, Tuesday, on waking up, he recalled with pleasure the previous day's victory and could not help smiling, though he wished to look indifferent when the office manager, wishing to flatter him, told him about the rumours that had reached him concerning what had happened in the commission.
Busy with the office manager, Alexei Alexandrovich completely forgot that it was Tuesday, the day he had appointed for Anna Arkadyevna's arrival, and was unpleasantly surprised when a servant came to announce her arrival to him.
Anna arrived in Petersburg early in the morning; a carriage was sent to fetch her, in accordance with her telegram, and therefore Alexei Alexandrovich might have known of her arrival. But when she arrived, he did not meet her. She was told that he had not come out yet and was busy with the office manager. She asked that her husband be told of her arrival, went to her boudoir and began to unpack her things, expecting him to come to her. But an hour went by and he did not come. She went out to the dining room under the pretext of giving orders and spoke loudly on purpose, expecting him to come there; but he did not come, though she heard him walk to the door of the study to see the office manager off. She knew that he would soon leave for work, as usual, and she would have liked to see him before then, in order to have their relations defined.
After taking a few steps round the drawing room, she resolutely went to him. When she entered his study, he was sitting in his uniform, apparently ready to leave, leaning his elbows on the small table and gazing dejectedly in front of him. She saw him before he saw her, and she realized that he was thinking about her.
Seeing her, he made as if to get up, changed his mind, then his face flushed, something Anna had never seen before, and he quickly got up and went to meet her, looking not into her eyes but higher, at her forehead and hair. He went up to her, took her by the hand and asked her to sit down.
'I'm very glad you've come,' he said, sitting down next to her, and, obviously wishing to say something, he faltered. Several times he tried to begin speaking, but stopped. Although, while preparing herself for this meeting, she had taught herself to despise and accuse him, she did not know what to say and felt sorry for him. And the silence went on like that for quite some time. 'Is Seryozha well?' he said and, without waiting for an answer, added: 'I won't dine at home today, and I must leave at once.'
'I wanted to go to Moscow,' she said.
'No, you did very, very well to come,' he said, and again fell silent.
Seeing that he was unable to begin talking, she began herself.
'Alexei Alexandrovich,' she said, looking up at him and not lowering her eyes under his gaze, directed at her hair, 'I am a criminal woman, I am a bad woman, but I am the same as I said I was then, and I've come to tell you that I cannot change anything.'
'I did not ask you about that,' he said suddenly, looking straight into her eyes, resolutely and with hatred, 'I had supposed as much.' Under the influence of anger, he apparen
tly regained complete command of all his abilities. 'But, as I then said and wrote to you,' he went on in a sharp, thin voice, 'I now repeat that I am not obliged to know it. I ignore it. Not all wives are so kind as you are, to hasten to tell their husbands such pleasant news.' He especially emphasized the word 'pleasant'. 'I ignore it as long as it is not known to society, as long as my name is not disgraced. And therefore I only warn you that our relations must be such as they have always been and that only in the case of your compromising yourself would I have to take measures to protect my honour.'
'But our relations cannot be as they have always been,' Anna began in a timid voice, looking at him in fear.
When she saw again those calm gestures, heard that piercing, childlike and mocking voice, her loathing for him annihilated the earlier pity, and she was merely frightened, but wished at all costs to understand her situation.
'I cannot be your wife when I...' she began.
He laughed a spiteful, cold laugh.
'It must be that the sort of life you've chosen has affected your notions. I respect or despise the one and the other so much ... I respect your past and despise the present ... that I was far from the interpretation you have given to my words.'
