by Leo Tolstoy
When Alexei Alexandrovich had decided to himself that he ought to have a talk with his wife, it had seemed an easy and simple thing to him; but now, as he began to think over this newly arisen circumstance, it seemed to him very complicated and difficult.
Alexei Alexandrovich was not a jealous man. Jealousy, in his opinion, was insulting to a wife, and a man ought to have trust in his wife. Why he ought to have trust - that is, complete assurance that his young wife would always love him - he never asked himself; but he felt no distrust, because he had trust and told himself that he had to have it. But now, though his conviction that jealousy was a shameful feeling and that one ought to have trust was not destroyed, he felt that he stood face to face with something illogical and senseless, and he did not know what to do. Alexei Alexandrovich stood face to face with life, confronting the possibility of his wife loving someone else besides him, and it was this that seemed so senseless and incomprehensible to him, because it was life itself. All his life Alexei Alexandrovich had lived and worked in spheres of service that dealt with reflections of life. And each time he had encountered life itself, he had drawn back from it. Now he experienced a feeling similar to what a man would feel who was calmly walking across a bridge over an abyss and suddenly saw that the bridge had been taken down and below him was the bottomless deep. This bottomless deep was life itself, the bridge the artificial life that Alexei Alexandrovich had lived. For the first time questions came to him about the possibility of his wife falling in love with someone, and he was horrified at them.
Without undressing, he paced with his even step up and down the resounding parquet floor of the dining room lit by a single lamp, over the carpet in the dark drawing room, where light was reflected only from the large, recently painted portrait of himself that hung over the sofa, and through her boudoir, where two candles burned, lighting the portraits of her relations and lady-friends, and the beautiful knick-knacks on her desk, long intimately familiar to him. Passing through her room he reached the door of the bedroom and turned back again.
At each section of his walk, and most often on the parquet of the lamp-lit dining room, he stopped and said to himself: 'Yes, it is necessary to resolve this and stop it, to express my view of it and my resolution.' And he turned back. 'But express what? What resolution?' he said to himself in the drawing room, and found no answer. 'But, finally,' he asked himself before turning into the boudoir, 'what has happened? Nothing. She talked with him for a long time. What of it? A woman can talk with all sorts of men in society. And besides, to be jealous means to humiliate both myself and her,' he told himself, going into her boudoir; but this reasoning, which used to have such weight for him, now weighed nothing and meant nothing. And from the bedroom door he turned back to the main room; but as soon as he entered the dark drawing room again, some voice said to him that this was not so, that if others had noticed it, it meant there was something. And again he said to himself in the dining room: 'Yes, it is necessary to resolve this and stop it and to express my view ...' And again in the drawing room, before turning back, he asked himself: resolve it how? And then asked himself, what had happened? And answered: nothing, and remembered that jealousy was a feeling humiliating for a wife, but again in the drawing room he was convinced that something had happened. His thoughts, like his body, completed a full circle without encountering anything new. He noticed it, rubbed his forehead, and sat down in her boudoir.
Here, looking at her desk with the malachite blotter and an unfinished letter lying on it, his thoughts suddenly changed. He began thinking about her, about what she thought and felt. For the first time he vividly pictured to himself her personal life, her thoughts, her wishes, and the thought that she could and should have her own particular life seemed so frightening to him that he hastened to drive it away. It was that bottomless deep into which it was frightening to look. To put himself in thought and feeling into another being was a mental act alien to Alexei Alexandrovich. He regarded this mental act as harmful and dangerous fantasizing.
'And most terrible of all,' he thought, 'is that precisely now, when my work is coming to a conclusion' (he was thinking of the project he was putting through), 'when I need all my calm and all my inner forces, this senseless anxiety falls upon me. But what am I to do? I'm not one of those people who suffer troubles and anxieties and have no strength to look them in the face.'
'I must think it over, resolve it and cast it aside,' he said aloud.
'Questions about her feelings, about what has been or might be going on in her soul, are none of my business; they are the business of her conscience and belong to religion,' he said to himself, feeling relieved at the awareness that he had found the legitimate category to which the arisen circumstance belonged.
'And so,' Alexei Alexandrovich said to himself, 'questions of her feelings and so on are questions of her conscience, which can be no business of mine. My duty is then clearly defined. As head of the family, I am the person whose duty it is to guide her and am therefore in part the person responsible: I must point out the danger I see, caution her, and even use authority. I must speak out to her.'
And in Alexei Alexandrovich's head everything he would presently say to his wife took clear shape. Thinking over what he would say, he regretted that he had to put his time and mental powers to such inconspicuous domestic use; but, in spite of that, the form and sequence of the imminent speech took shape in his head clearly and distinctly, like a report. 'I must say and speak out the following: first, an explanation of the meaning of public opinion and propriety; second, a religious explanation of the meaning of marriage; third, if necessary, an indication of the possible unhappiness for our son; fourth, an indication of her own unhappiness.' And, interlacing his fingers, palms down, Alexei Alexandrovich stretched so that the joints cracked.
This gesture, a bad habit - joining his hands and cracking his fingers - always calmed him down and brought him to precision, which he had such need of now. There was the sound of a carriage driving up by the entrance. Alexei Alexandrovich stopped in the middle of the drawing room.
A woman's footsteps came up the stairs. Alexei Alexandrovich, prepared for his speech, stood pressing his crossed fingers, seeing whether there might be another crack somewhere. One joint cracked.
By the sound of light footsteps on the stairs he could already sense her approach and, though he was pleased with his speech, he felt afraid of the imminent talk ...
IX
Anna was walking with her head bowed, playing with the tassels of her hood. Her face glowed with a bright glow; but this glow was not happy - it was like the terrible glow of a fire on a dark night. Seeing her husband, Anna raised her head and, as if waking up, smiled.
'You're not in bed? What a wonder!' she said, threw off her hood and, without stopping, went on into her dressing room. 'It's late, Alexei Alexandrovich,' she said from behind the door.
'Anna, I must have a talk with you.'
'With me?' she said in surprise, stepping out from behind the door and looking at him.
'Yes.'
'What's the matter? What is it about?' she asked, sitting down. 'Well, let's have a talk, if it's so necessary. But it would be better to go to sleep.'
Anna said whatever came to her tongue, and was surprised, listening to herself, at her ability to lie. How simple, how natural her words were, and how it looked as if she simply wanted to sleep! She felt herself clothed in an impenetrable armour of lies. She felt that some invisible force was helping her and supporting her.
'Anna, I must warn you,' he said.
'Warn me?' she said. 'About what?'
She looked at him so simply, so gaily, that no one who did not know her as her husband did could have noticed anything unnatural either in the sound or in the meaning of her words. But for him who knew her, who knew that when he went to bed five minutes late, she noticed it and asked the reason, who knew that she told him at once her every joy, happiness, or grief - for him it meant a great deal to see now that she d
id not want to notice his state or say a word about herself. He saw that the depth of her soul, formerly always open to him, was now closed to him. Moreover, by her tone he could tell that she was not embarrassed by it, but was as if saying directly to him: yes, it's closed, and so it ought to be and will be in the future. He now felt the way a man would feel coming home and finding his house locked up. 'But perhaps the key will still be found,' thought Alexei Alexandrovich.
'I want to warn you,' he said in a low voice, 'that by indiscretion and light-mindedness you may give society occasion to talk about you. Your much too animated conversation tonight with Count Vronsky' (he articulated this name firmly and with calm measuredness) 'attracted attention.'
He spoke and looked at her laughing eyes, now frightening to him in their impenetrability, and as he spoke he felt all the uselessness and idleness of his words.
'You're always like that,' she replied, as if she had not understood him at all and had deliberately grasped only the last thing he had said. 'First you're displeased when I'm bored, then you're displeased when I'm merry. I wasn't bored. Does that offend you?'
Alexei Alexandrovich gave a start and bent his hands in order to crack them.
'Ah, please don't crack them, I dislike it so,' she said.
'Anna, is this you?' Alexei Alexandrovich said in a low voice, making an effort and restraining the movement of his hands.
'But what is all this?' she said with sincere and comical surprise. 'What do you want from me?'
Alexei Alexandrovich paused and rubbed his forehead and eyes with his hand. He saw that instead of what he had wanted to do, that is, warn his wife about a mistake in the eyes of society, he was involuntarily worrying about something that concerned her conscience and was struggling with some wall that he had imagined.
'Here is what I intend to say,' he went on coldly and calmly, 'and I ask you to listen to me. As you know, I look upon jealousy as an insulting and humiliating feeling, and I would never allow myself to be guided by it. But there are certain laws of propriety against which one cannot trespass with impunity. I did not notice it this evening, but judging by the impression made upon the company, everyone noticed that you behaved and bore yourself not quite as one might wish.'
'I really don't understand,' said Anna, shrugging her shoulders. 'He doesn't care,' she thought. 'But society noticed and that troubles him.' 'You're unwell, Alexei Alexandrovich,' she added, stood up, and was about to go out of the door, but he moved forward as if wishing to stop
her.
His face was ugly and sullen, as Anna had never seen it before. She stopped and, leaning her head back to one side, with her quick hand began taking out her hairpins.
'Well, sir, I'm listening for what comes next,' she said calmly and mockingly. 'And even listening with interest, because I wish to understand what it's all about.'
She spoke and was surprised by the naturally calm, sure tone with which she spoke and her choice of words.
'I have no right to enter into all the details of your feelings, and generally I consider it useless and even harmful,' Alexei Alexandrovich began. 'Rummaging in our souls, we often dig up something that ought to have lain there unnoticed. Your feelings are a matter for your conscience; but it is my duty to you, to myself, and to God, to point out your duties to you. Our lives are bound together, and bound not by men but by God. Only a crime can break this bond, and a crime of that sort draws down a heavy punishment.'
'I don't understand a thing. Ah, my God, and unfortunately I'm sleepy!' she said, quickly running her hand over her hair, searching for any remaining hairpins.
'Anna, for God's sake, don't talk like that,' he said meekly. 'Perhaps I am mistaken, but believe me, what I am saying I say as much for myself as for you. I am your husband and I love you.'
For a moment her face fell and the mocking spark in her eye went out; but the word 'love' again made her indignant. She thought: 'Love? But can he love? If he hadn't heard there was such a thing as love, he would never have used the word. He doesn't even know what love is.'
'Alexei Alexandrovich, really, I don't understand,' she said. 'Explain what it is you find ...'
'Please allow me to finish. I love you. But I am not speaking of myself. The main persons here are our son and yourself. It may well be, I repeat, that my words will seem completely unnecessary and inappropriate to you; it may be that they are caused by an error on my part. In that case I beg you to pardon me. But if you yourself feel that there are even the slightest grounds, I beg you to think and, if your heart speaks, to tell me...' Alexei Alexandrovich, not noticing it himself, was saying something quite other than what he had prepared.
'There's nothing for me to tell. And ...' she suddenly said quickly, with a barely restrained smile, 'really, it's time for bed.'
Alexei Alexandrovich sighed and, saying no more, went into the bedroom.
When she came into the bedroom, he was already lying down. His lips were sternly compressed, and his eyes were not looking at her. Anna got into her own bed and waited every minute for him to begin talking to her again. She feared that he would, and at the same time she wanted it. But he was silent. For a long time she waited motionless and then forgot about him. She was thinking about another man, she could see him, and felt how at this thought her heart filled with excitement and criminal joy. Suddenly she heard a steady, peaceful nasal whistling. At first, Alexei Alexandrovich seemed startled by this whistling and stopped; but after two breaths the whistling began again with a new, peaceful steadiness.
'It's late now, late, late,' she whispered with a smile. She lay for a long time motionless, her eyes open, and it seemed to her that she herself could see them shining in the darkness.
X
From that evening a new life began for Alexei Alexandrovich and his wife. Nothing special happened. Anna went into society as always, visited Princess Betsy especially often, and met Vronsky everywhere. Alexei Alexandrovich saw it but could do nothing. To all his attempts at drawing her into an explanation she opposed the impenetrable wall of some cheerful perplexity. Outwardly things were the same, but inwardly their relations had changed completely. Alexei Alexandrovich, such a strong man in affairs of state, here felt himself powerless. Like a bull, head lowered obediently, he waited for the axe that he felt was raised over him. Each time he began thinking about it, he felt that he had to try once more, that by kindness, tenderness and persuasion there was still a hope of saving her, of making her come to her senses, and he tried each day to talk with her. But each time he started talking with her, he felt that the spirit of evil and deceit that possessed her also took possession of him, and he said something to her that was not right at all and not in the tone in which he had wanted to speak. He talked with her involuntarily in his habitual tone, which was a mockery of those who would talk that way seriously. And in that tone it was impossible to say what needed to be said to her.
XI
That which for almost a year had constituted the one exclusive desire of Vronsky's life, replacing all former desires; that which for Anna had been an impossible, horrible, but all the more enchanting dream of happiness - this desire had been satisfied. Pale, his lower jaw trembling, he stood over her and pleaded with her to be calm, himself not knowing why or how.
'Anna! Anna!' he kept saying in a trembling voice. 'Anna, for God's sake! ...'
But the louder he spoke, the lower she bent her once proud, gay, but now shame-stricken head, and she became all limp, falling from the divan where she had been sitting to the floor at his feet; she would have fallen on the carpet if he had not held her.
'My God! Forgive me!' she said, sobbing, pressing his hands to her breast.
She felt herself so criminal and guilty that the only thing left for her was to humble herself and beg forgiveness; but as she had no one else in her life now except him, it was also to him that she addressed her plea for forgiveness. Looking at him, she physically felt her humiliation and could say nothing more. And he felt what a murder
er must feel when he looks at the body he has deprived of life. This body deprived of life was their love, the first period of their love. There was something horrible and loathsome in his recollections of what had been paid for with this terrible price of shame. Shame at her spiritual nakedness weighed on her and communicated itself to him. But, despite all the murderer's horror before the murdered body, he had to cut this body into pieces and hide it, he had to make use of what the murderer had gained by his murder.
And as the murderer falls upon this body with animosity, as if with passion, drags it off and cuts it up, so he covered her face and shoulders with kisses. She held his hand and did not move. Yes, these kisses were what had been bought by this shame. Yes, and this one hand, which will always be mine, is the hand of my accomplice. She raised this hand and kissed it. He knelt down and tried to look at her face; but she hid it and said nothing. Finally, as if forcing herself, she sat up and pushed him away. Her face was still as beautiful, but the more pitiful for that.