by Leo Tolstoy
Vronsky was pleased. He had never expected such nice tone in the provinces.
At the end of dinner things grew merrier still. The governor asked Vronsky to attend a concert for the benefit of the brothers,[12] arranged by his wife, who wished to make his acquaintance.
* Bringing the telegraph into play.
'There will be a ball, and you'll see our beauty. In fact, she's remarkable.'
'Not in my line,' Vronsky answered in English, having a fondness for the expression, but he smiled and promised to come.
Before leaving the table, when everyone had already begun to smoke, Vronsky's butler came to him with a letter on a tray.
'By messenger from Vozdvizhenskoe,' he said with a significant look.
'It's amazing how much he resembles the assistant prosecutor Sventitsky,' one of the guests said in French, referring to the butler, while Vronsky read the letter with a frown.
The letter was from Anna. He knew its contents even before reading it. Supposing the elections would be over in five days, he had promised to be home on Friday. Today was Saturday, and he knew the letter contained reproaches for his not having come on time. The letter he had sent the previous evening probably had not yet reached her.
The contents were just as he had expected, but the form was unexpected and particularly disagreeable to him. 'Annie is very sick, the doctor says it may be an infection. Alone I lose my head. Princess Varvara is not a help but a hindrance. I expected you two days ago, then yesterday, and now I'm sending to find out where and how you are. I wanted to come myself but changed my mind, knowing it would displease you. Give me some answer so that I know what to do.'
Their child was sick, and she wanted to come herself. Their daughter was sick, and there was this hostile tone.
The innocent merriment of the elections and that gloomy, oppressive love he had to go back to struck Vronsky by their contrast. But he had to go, and that night he took the first train home.
XXXII
Before Vronsky left for the elections, Anna, considering that the scenes repeated each time he left might only make him colder and not bind him to her, decided to try as hard as she could to calmly endure her separation from him. But the cold, stern look he gave her when he came to announce that he was leaving offended her, and even before he left her calm was already broken.
Later, when she was alone, she thought about that look, which expressed his right to freedom, and arrived, as always, at one thing -the awareness of her humiliation. 'He has the right to go off wherever and whenever he wants. Not only to go off but to abandon me. He has all the rights and I have none. But, knowing that, he shouldn't have done it. And yet what did he do? ... He looked at me with a cold, stern expression. Of course, that is indefinable, intangible, but it wasn't so before, and that look means a lot,' she thought. 'That look shows that the cooling off has begun.'
And though she was convinced that the cooling off had begun, still there was nothing she could do, she could not change anything in her relations with him. Just as before, she could only try to keep him by her love and her attractiveness. And as before, by being occupied during the day and taking morphine at night, she could stifle the terrible thoughts of what would happen if he stopped loving her. True, there was one other means, not to keep him - for that she wanted nothing but his love - but to get so close to him, to be in such a position, that he could not abandon her. That means was divorce and marriage. And she began to wish for it, and decided to agree to it the very first time he or Stiva brought it up.
In such thoughts she spent five days without him, those days when he intended to be away.
Walks, conversations with Princess Varvara, visits to the hospital and, above all, reading, reading one book after another, occupied her time. But on the sixth day, when the coachman came back without him, she felt that she no longer had the strength to stifle her thoughts of him and of what he was doing there. Just then her daughter became sick. Anna began to look after her, but that did not distract her either, particularly as the sickness was not dangerous. Much as she tried, she could not love this girl, nor could she pretend to love her. Towards evening of that day, left alone, Anna felt such fear about him that she almost decided to go to town, but, thinking better of it, wrote that contradictory letter which Vronsky received and, without rereading it, sent it with a messenger. The next morning she received his letter and regretted her own. She anticipated with horror the repetition of that stern look he had cast at her as he was leaving, especially when he discovered that the girl was not dangerously sick. But all the same she was glad she had written to him. Anna now admitted to herself that he was burdened by her, that he would regret parting with his freedom and coming back to her, but in spite of that she was glad of his coming. Let him be burdened, but let him be there with her, so that she could see him and know his every move.
She was sitting in the drawing room, under a lamp, with a new book by Taine,[13] reading and listening to the noise of the wind outside, and expecting the carriage to arrive any moment. Several times she thought she heard the sound of wheels, but was mistaken; at last she heard not only the sound of wheels but the driver's shouts and the hollow sound under the portico. Even Princess Varvara, who was playing patience, confirmed it, and Anna, flushing, got up, but instead of going downstairs as she had already done twice, she stopped. She suddenly felt ashamed of her lie, but frightened most of all at how he was going to greet her. The offended feeling was gone now; she only feared he would show his displeasure. She remembered that their daughter had already been well for two days. She was even vexed that she had recovered just as the letter was bent. Then she remembered him, that he was there, all of him, with his hands, his eyes. She heard his voice. And, forgetting everything, she joyfully ran to meet him.
'Well, how's Annie?' he said timidly from below, looking at Anna running down to him.
He was sitting in a chair, and the footman was pulling off one of his warm boots.
'All right, she's better.'
'And you?' he said, giving himself a shake.
She took his hand in both of hers and drew it to her waist, not taking her eyes off him.
'Well, I'm very glad,' he said, coldly looking at her, her hair, the dress he knew she had put on for him.
He liked it all, but he had already liked it so many times! And the stony, stern expression she had been so afraid of settled on his face.
'Well, I'm very glad. And are you well?' he said, wiping his wet beard with a handkerchief and kissing her hand.
'It makes no difference,' she thought, 'as long as he's here, and when he's here he can't, he daren't not love me.'
The evening passed happily and cheerfully in the presence of Princess Varvara, who complained to him that without him Anna took morphine.
'What was I to do? I couldn't sleep ... My thoughts troubled me. When he's here I never take it. Almost never.' He told her about the elections, and Anna, with her questions, was able to guide him to the very thing that cheered him - his success. She told him about everything that interested him at home. And all her news was most cheerful.
But late at night, when they were alone, Anna, seeing that she was again in full possession of him, wished to wipe away the painful impression of that look owing to the letter. She said:
'But confess, you were vexed to get the letter and didn't believe me?'
As soon as she said it, she realized that however amorously disposed he was towards her now, he had not forgiven her for it.
'Yes,' he said. 'The letter was so strange. First Annie's sick, and then you want to come yourself.'
'It was all true.'
'I don't doubt that.'
'Yes, you do. You're displeased, I can see.'
'Not for one minute. I'm only displeased, it's true, that you seem not to want to admit there are responsibilities ...'
'Responsibilities to go to a concert...'
'Let's not talk about it,' he said.
'And why not talk about it?'
she said.
'I merely wish to say that business may come up, something necessary. Now, you see, I'll have to go to Moscow to do with the house ... Ah, Anna, why are you so irritable ? Don't you know I can't live without you ?'
'If so,' said Anna, in a suddenly changed voice, 'then this life is a burden to you... Yes, you'll come for a day and then go, as men do ...'
'Anna, that's cruel. I'm ready to give my whole life ...'
But she was not listening to him.
'If you go to Moscow, I'll go, too. I won't stay here. Either we separate or we live together.'
'You know that that is my only wish. But for that...'
'A divorce is necessary? I'll write to him. I see that I can't live like this ... But I will go with you to Moscow.'
'It's as if you're threatening me. Yet there's nothing I wish more than not to be separated from you,' Vronsky said, smiling.
But the look that flashed in his eyes as he spoke those tender words was not only the cold, angry look of a persecuted and embittered man.
She saw that look and correctly guessed its meaning.
'If it is like this, it is a disaster!' said the look. It was a momentary impression, but she never forgot it.
Anna wrote a letter to her husband asking him for a divorce, and at the end of November, having parted with Princess Varvara, who had to go to Petersburg, she moved to Moscow with Vronsky. Expecting a reply from Alexei Aiexandrovich any day, to be followed by a divorce, they now settled together like a married couple.
Part Seven
* * *
I
The Levins were already living for the third month in Moscow. The term was long past when, by the surest calculations of people who knew about such things, Kitty ought to have given birth; and yet she was still expecting, and there was no indication that the time was nearer now than two months ago. The doctor, the midwife, Dolly, her mother, and Levin especially, who could not think of the approaching event without horror, were beginning to feel impatient and anxious; Kitty alone was perfectly calm and happy.
She was now clearly aware of the new feeling of love being born in her for the future child who, for her, was already partly present, and she delighted in attending to this feeling. It was no longer wholly a part of her now, but sometimes lived its own life independent of her. It often caused her pain, but at the same time made her want to laugh with a strange new joy.
Everyone she loved was with her, and everyone was so kind to her, took such care of her, she saw so much of sheer pleasantness in all that was offered to her, that if she had not known and felt that it must soon end, she could not even have wished for a better or more pleasant life. The one thing that spoiled the charm of that life for her was that her husband was not the way she loved him and the way he used to be in the country.
She loved his calm, gentle, and hospitable tone in the country. But in the city he was constantly anxious and wary, as if fearing someone might offend him and, above all, her. There, in the country, obviously knowing he was where he belonged, he did not hurry anywhere and was never unoccupied. Here in the city he was constantly in a hurry, as though he might miss something, and he had nothing to do. And she pitied him.
To others, she knew, he did not look pitiful; on the contrary, when Kitty watched him in company, as one sometimes watches a person one loves, trying to see him as a stranger, to define the impression he makes on others, she saw, even with fear of her own jealousy, that he was not only not pitiful but very attractive in his decency, his rather old-fashioned, bashful politeness with women, his powerful figure, and his - as it seemed to her - particularly expressive face. But she saw him not from the outside but from inside; she saw that here he was not his real self; there was no other way she could define his condition. Sometimes she reproached him in her heart for not knowing how to live in the city; sometimes she also admitted that it was truly difficult for him to arrange his life here in a satisfying way.
Indeed, what was there for him to do? He did not like to play cards. He did not go to the club. To keep company with merry men like Oblonsky - she now knew what that meant... it meant drinking and going somewhere afterwards. She could not think without horror of where men went on such occasions. To go out in society? But for that she knew that one had to take pleasure in meeting young women, and she could not wish for that. To sit at home with her and her mother and sister? But however pleasant and enjoyable she found those ever identical conversations - 'Alines and Nadines', as the old prince called these conversations between sisters - she knew they had to be boring for him. What was left for him to do? To go on writing his book? He did try to do that, and in the beginning went to the library to take notes and references; but, as he told her, the longer he did nothing, the less time he had left. And besides, he complained to her that he had talked too much about his book here, and as a result all his thoughts about it had become confused and he had lost interest in them.
One advantage of this city life was that here in the city they never had any quarrels. Either because city conditions were different, or because they had both become more prudent and sensible in that respect, in Moscow they had no quarrels because of jealousy, something they had been very much afraid of when they moved to the city.
There even occurred an event that was very important for them both - namely, Kitty's meeting with Vronsky.
The old princess Marya Borisovna, Kitty's godmother, who had always loved her, wanted to see her without fail. Kitty, who in her condition never went anywhere, did go with her father to see the venerable old woman, and there met Vronsky.
The only thing Kitty could reproach herself with in that meeting was that, when she recognized that once so familiar figure in his civilian clothes, her breath was taken away, the blood rushed to her heart, and bright colour (she could feel it) came to her face. But that lasted only a few seconds. Before her father, who purposely addressed Vronsky in a loud voice, had finished what he was saying, she was fully prepared to look at him, to talk with him, if necessary, just as she talked with Princess Marya Borisovna, and, above all, so that everything to the very last intonation and smile could have been approved of by her husband, whose invisible presence she seemed to feel above her at that moment.
She said a few words to him, even smiled calmly at his joke about the elections, which he called 'our parliaments'. (She had to smile to show that she understood the joke.) But she immediately turned away to Princess Marya Borisovna and never once glanced at him until he got up to leave; then she looked at him, but obviously only because it was impolite not to look at a man when he was bowing to you.
She was grateful to her father for not saying anything about meeting Vronsky; but by his special tenderness after the visit, during their usual walk, she saw that he was pleased with her. She was pleased with herself. She had never expected that she would have the strength to hold down somewhere deep in her heart all memories of her former feeling for Vronsky, and not only to seem but to be quite indifferent and calm towards him.
Levin flushed much more than she did when she told him she had met Vronsky at Princess Marya Borisovna's. It was very hard for her to tell him about it, and still harder for her to go on talking about the details of the meeting, since he did not ask but only looked frowning at her.
'It's too bad you weren't there,' she said. 'That is, not that you weren't in the room ... I wouldn't have been so natural with you there... Now I'm blushing much more, much, much more,' she said, blushing to tears. 'But that you couldn't have looked through a crack.'
Her truthful eyes told Levin that she was pleased with herself, and, despite her blushing, he calmed down at once and began asking questions, which was just what she wanted. When he had learned everything, even to the detail that she could not help flushing in the first second, but after that had felt as simple and easy as with anybody at all, Levin cheered up completely and said he was very glad of it and that now he would not behave as stupidly as he had at the elections, but would try at the ve
ry first meeting with Vronsky to be as friendly as possible. 'It's so tormenting to think that there's a man who is almost an enemy, whom it's painful to meet,' said Levin. 'I'm very, very glad.'
II
'So please call on the Bohls,' Kitty said to her husband, when he came to see her at eleven o'clock, before going out. 'I know you're dining at the club, papa signed you up. And what are you doing in the morning?'
'I'm just going to visit Katavasov,' answered Levin.
'Why so early?'
'He promised to introduce me to Metrov. I'd like to discuss my work with him. He's a well-known Petersburg scholar,' said Levin.
'Yes, wasn't it his article that you praised so much? Well, and then?' said Kitty.
'I may also go to the court on my sister's business.'
'And to the concert?' she asked.
'As if I'd go alone!'
'No, do go. They perform these new things... You were so interested. I wouldn't miss it.'
'Well, in any case I'll call in at home before dinner,' he said, looking at his watch.