by Leo Tolstoy
The most diverse thoughts were tangled in his head. 'Marie Sanin is glad her child died ... Would be nice to smoke now ... To be saved, one need only believe, and the monks don't know how to do it, but Countess Lydia Ivanovna does ... And why is there such a heaviness in my head? From the cognac, or because it's all so strange? Anyhow, I don't think I've done anything improper yet. But, still, it's impossible to ask for her help now. I've heard they make people pray. What if they make me pray? That would be too stupid. And what's this nonsense she's reading, albeit with good enunciation? Landau is Bezzubov. Why is he Bezzubov?' Suddenly Stepan Arkadyich felt his lower jaw beginning to contract irrepressibly before a yawn. He smoothed his side-whiskers, concealing the yawn, and shook himself. But next he felt he was already asleep and about to snore. He woke up just as the voice of Countess Lydia Ivanovna said, 'He's asleep.'
Stepan Arkadyich woke up in fear, feeling guilty and exposed. But he was reassured at once, seeing that the words 'He's asleep' referred not to him but to Landau. The Frenchman had fallen asleep as had Stepan Arkadyich. But while Stepan Arkadyich's sleep, as he thought, would have offended them (however, he did not think even that, so strange everything seemed to him), Landau's sleep delighted them in the extreme, Countess Lydia Ivanovna especially.
'Mon ami,' said Lydia Ivanovna, carefully picking up the folds of her silk dress so as not to rustle, and in her excitement calling Karenin 'mon ami' now instead of Alexei Alexandrovich, 'donnez-lui la main. Vous voyez?* Shh!' she shushed the footman, who came in again. 'Receive no one.'
* Give him your hand. You see? The Frenchman slept, or pretended to sleep, his head resting on the back of the armchair, and made feeble movements with the sweaty hand that lay on his knee, as if attempting to catch something. Alexei Alexandrovich got up, trying to be careful but brushing against the table, went over and put his hand into the Frenchman's hand. Stepan Arkadyich also got up and, opening his eyes wide, wishing to waken himself in case he was asleep, looked now at the one man, now at the other. It was all real. Stepan Arkadyich felt that his head was getting worse and worse.
'Que la personne qui est arrivee la derniere, celle qui demande, qu'elle sorte! Qu'elle sorte!'* the Frenchman said, without opening his eyes.
'Vous m'excuserez, mais vous voyez ... Revenez vers dix heures, encore mieux demain.'^
'Qu'elle sorte!' the Frenchman impatiently repeated.
'C'est moi, n'est-ce pas?'*
And, receiving an affirmative reply, Stepan Arkadyich, forgetting about what he had wanted to ask Lydia Ivanovna, and also forgetting about his sister's business, with the sole desire of quickly getting out of there, left on tiptoe and, as if it were a plague house, ran out to the street and spent a long time talking and joking with a cabby, hoping the sooner to come to his senses.
At the French Theatre, where he arrived for the last act, and then over champagne at the Tartars', Stepan Arkadyich caught his breath a little in an atmosphere more suitable to him. But even so he felt quite out of sorts that evening.
Returning home to Pyotr Oblonsky's, where he was staying in Petersburg, Stepan Arkadyich found a note from Betsy. She wrote that she wished very much to finish the conversation they had started and invited him to come the next day. No sooner had he read the note and winced at it than he heard downstairs the heavy footsteps of people carrying some weighty object.
Stepan Arkadyich went out to look. It was the rejuvenated Pyotr Oblonsky. He was so drunk that he was unable to climb the stairs; but he ordered them to stand him on his feet when he saw Stepan Arkadyich,
* The person who came last, the one who is asking for something, must get out! Get out!
* You will excuse me, but you can see ... Come back at around ten, or better still tomorrow.
* That's me, isn't it? and, hanging on to him, went with him to his room, there began telling about how he had spent the evening, and fell asleep on the spot.
Stepan Arkadyich was in low spirits, which rarely happened to him, and could not fall asleep for a long time. Everything he recalled, everything, was vile, but vilest of all was the recollection, as if of something shameful, of the evening at Countess Lydia Ivanovna's.
The next day he received from Alexei Alexandrovich a definitive refusal to divorce Anna and understood that this decision was based on what the Frenchman had said in his real or feigned sleep.
XXIII
In order to undertake anything in family life, it is necessary that there be either complete discord between the spouses or loving harmony. But when the relations between spouses are uncertain and there is neither the one nor the other, nothing can be undertaken.
Many families stay for years in the same old places, hateful to both spouses, only because there is neither full discord nor harmony.
For both Vronsky and Anna, Moscow life in the heat and dust, when the sun no longer shone as in spring but as in summer, and all the trees on the boulevards had long been in leaf, and the leaves were already covered with dust, was unbearable. But instead of moving to Vozdvizhenskoe, as they had long ago decided to do, they went on living in the Moscow they both hated, because lately there had been no harmony between them.
The irritation that divided them had no external cause, and all attempts to talk about it not only did not remove it but increased it. This was an inner irritation, which for her was based on the diminishing of his love, and for him on his regret at having put himself, for her sake, in a difficult situation, which she, instead of making easier, made still more difficult. Neither of them spoke of the causes of their irritation, but each considered the other in the wrong and tried to prove it at every opportunity.
For her, all of him, with all his habits, thoughts, desires, with his entire mental and physical cast, amounted to one thing: love for women. And that love, which, as she felt, should have been concentrated on her alone, had diminished. Therefore, she reasoned, he must have transferred part of it to other women, or to another woman - and she was jealous. She was jealous not of any one woman, but of the diminishing of his love. Having as yet no object for her jealousy, she was looking for one. Following the slightest hint, she transferred her jealousy from one object to another. Now she was jealous of those coarse women with whom he could so easily associate himself thanks to his bachelor connections; then she was jealous of the society women he might meet, or again of some imaginary girl he wanted to marry after breaking the liaison with her. And this last jealousy tormented her most of all, especially as he himself, in a moment of candour, had imprudently told her that his mother understood him so little that she allowed herself to insist that he should marry Princess Sorokin.
And, being jealous, Anna was indignant with him and sought pretexts for indignation in everything. She blamed him for everything that was difficult in her situation. The painful state of expectation, between heaven and earth, in which she lived in Moscow, Alexei Alexandrovich's slowness and indecision, her seclusion - she ascribed it all to him. If he loved her, he would understand the full difficulty of her situation and would take her out of it. The fact that she was living in Moscow and not in the country was also his fault. He could not live buried in the country, as she wanted to. Society was necessary for him, and he put her into that terrible position, the difficulty of which he did not wish to understand. And it was he again who was to blame for her being forever separated from her son.
Even the rare moments of tenderness that occurred between them did not bring her peace: in his tenderness she now saw a tinge of tranquillity, of assurance, which had not been there before and which irritated her.
It was already dark. Alone, waiting for him to come back from a bachelors' dinner he had gone to, Anna paced up and down his study (the room where the noise of the street was heard least) and mentally went through the nuances of yesterday's quarrel in all their detail. Going further back from the memorably insulting words of the argument to what had caused them, she finally came to the beginning of their conversation. For a long time she could not believe t
hat the quarrel had begun from such a harmless conversation, not close to either of their hearts. Yet it was really so. It had all begun with him laughing at women's high schools, which he considered unnecessary, and her defending them. He referred disrespectfully to women's education in general and said that Hannah, Anna's English protegee, did not need any knowledge of physics.
That irritated Anna. She saw it as a contemptuous allusion to her concerns. And she devised and spoke a phrase that would pay him back for the pain he had caused her.
'I don't expect you to be mindful of me or my feelings as a loving man would be, but I do expect simple tactfulness,' she said.
And indeed he turned red with vexation and said something unpleasant. She did not remember what reply she made to him, but only that he, obviously also wishing to cause her pain, responded by saying:
'It's true I'm not interested in your concern for this girl, because I can see it's unnatural.'
The cruelty with which he destroyed the world she had so laboriously built up for herself in order to endure her difficult life, the unfairness with which he accused her of being false and unnatural, made her explode.
'I am very sorry that only coarse and material things seem understandable and natural to you,' she said and walked out of the room.
When he came to her that evening, they did not mention the quarrel that had taken place, but they both felt that, though it had been smoothed over, it was still there.
Today he had not been home all day, and she felt so lonely and so pained to have quarrelled with him that she wanted forget it all, to forgive and make peace with him, wanted to accuse herself and justify him.
'It's my own fault, I'm irritable, I'm senselessly jealous. I'll make peace with him, we'll leave for the country, I'll be calmer there,' she said to herself.
'Unnatural' - she suddenly remembered the most offensive thing, not the word so much as the intention to cause her pain.
'I know what he wanted to say. He wanted to say that it's unnatural for me to love someone else's child when I don't love my own daughter. What does he understand about the love for children, about my love for Seryozha, whom I have sacrificed for him? But this wish to cause me pain! No, he loves another woman, it can't be anything else.'
And seeing that, while wishing to calm herself, she had gone round the circle she had already completed so many times and come back to her former irritation, she was horrified at herself. 'Is it really impossible? Can I really not take it upon myself?' she said to herself, and began again from the beginning. 'He's truthful, he's honest, he loves me. I love him, the divorce will come any day now. What more do we need? We need peace, trust, and I'll take it upon myself. Yes, now, when he comes, I'll tell him it was my fault, though it wasn't, and we'll leave.'
And so as not to think any more and not to yield to irritation, she rang the bell and ordered the trunks to be brought in order to pack things for the country.
At ten o'clock Vronsky arrived.
XXIV
'So, did you have a good time?' she asked, coming out to meet him with a guilty and meek expression on her face.
'As usual,' he replied, understanding at a glance that she was in one of her good moods. He had become used to these changes, and was especially glad of it today, because he himself was in the best of spirits.
'What's this I see! That's good!' he said, pointing to the trunks in the hallway.
'Yes, we must leave. I went for a ride, and it's so nice that I wanted to go to the country. Nothing's keeping you?'
'It's my only wish. I'll come at once and we'll talk, I only have to change. Send for tea.'
And he went to his study.
There was something offensive in his saying 'That's good,' as one speaks to a child when it stops misbehaving; still more offensive was the contrast between her guilty and his self-assured tone; and for a moment she felt a desire to fight rising in her; but, making an effort, she suppressed it and met Vronsky just as cheerfully.
When he came out to her, she told him, partly repeating words she had prepared, about her day and her plans for departure.
'You know, it came to me almost like an inspiration,' she said. 'Why wait for the divorce here? Isn't it the same in the country? I can't wait any longer. I don't want to hope, I don't want to hear anything about the divorce. I've decided it's no longer going to influence my life. Do you agree?'
'Oh, yes!' he said, looking uneasily into her excited face.
'And what were you all doing there? Who came?' she said after a pause.
Vronsky named the guests.
'The dinner was excellent, and the boat race and all that was quite nice, but in Moscow they can't do without the ridicule. Some lady appeared, the queen of Sweden's swimming teacher, and demonstrated her art.'
'How? She swam?' Anna said, frowning.
'In some red costume de natation,* old, ugly. So, when do we leave?'
'What a stupid fantasy! Does she swim in some special way?' Anna said without answering.
'Certainly nothing special. That's what I'm saying - terribly stupid. So, when do you think of leaving?'
Anna shook her head as if wishing to drive some unpleasant thought away.
'When? The sooner the better. We won't be ready tomorrow. The day after tomorrow.'
'Yes ... no, wait. The day after tomorrow is Sunday, I must call on maman,' Vronsky said, embarrassed, because as soon as he mentioned his mother, he felt her intent, suspicious look fixed on him. His embarrassment confirmed her suspicions. She flushed and drew away from him. Now it was no longer the queen of Sweden's teacher that Anna pictured to herself, but Princess Sorokin, who lived on Countess Vronsky's country estate near Moscow.
'Can't you go tomorrow?' she said.
'No, I can't! The business I'm going for, the warrant and the money, won't have come by tomorrow,' he replied.
'In that case, we won't leave at all.'
'But why not?'
'I won't go later. Monday or never!'
'But why?' Vronsky said as if in surprise. 'It makes no sense!'
'For you it makes no sense, because you don't care about me at all. You don't want to understand my life. The only thing that has occupied me here is Hannah. You say it's all pretence. You did say yesterday that I don't love my daughter but pretend to love this English girl and that it's unnatural. I'd like to know what kind of life can be natural for me here!'
* Swimming costume.
For a moment she recovered herself and was horrified at having failed in her intention. But, even knowing that she was ruining herself, she could not hold back, could not keep from showing him how wrong he was, could not submit to him.
'I never said that. I said that I did not sympathize with this sudden love.'
'Since you boast of your directness, why don't you tell the truth?'
'I never boast, and I never say anything that isn't true,' he said softly, holding back the anger that was surging up in him. 'It's a great pity if you don't respect...'
'Respect was invented to cover the empty place where love should be. But if you don't love me, it would be better and more honest to say so.'
'No, this is becoming unbearable!' Vronsky cried, getting up from his chair. And, stopping in front of her, he said slowly, 'Why do you try my patience?' He looked as if he could have said many other things, but restrained himself. 'It does have limits.'
'What do you mean by that?' she cried, staring with horror at the clear expression of hatred that was on his whole face, especially in his cruel, menacing eyes.
'I mean ...' he began, but stopped. 'I must ask you what you want of me.'
'What can I want? The only thing I can want is that you not abandon me, as you're thinking of doing,' she said, understanding all that he had left unsaid. 'But that's not what I want, that's secondary. I want love and there is none. Which means it's all over!'
She went towards the door.
'Wait! Wa-a-ait!' said Vronsky, not smoothing the grim furrow of his brows, b
ut stopping her by the arm. 'What's the matter? I said we should put off our departure for three days and to that you said that I was lying, that I'm a dishonest man.'
'Yes, and I repeat that a man who reproaches me by saying he has sacrificed everything for me,' she said, recalling the words of a previous quarrel, 'is still worse than a dishonest man - he's a man with no heart!'
'No, patience has its limits!' he cried, and quickly let go of her arm.
'He hates me, it's clear,' she thought, and silently, without looking back, she left the room with faltering steps.
'He loves another woman, that's clearer still,' she said to herself, going into her room. 'I want love and there is none. Which means it's all over,' she repeated the words she had said, 'and I must end it.' 'But how?' she asked herself, and sat down on a chair in front of the mirror.
Thoughts of where she would go now - to the aunt who had brought her up, to Dolly, or simply abroad alone - and of what he was doing now, alone in his study, and whether this quarrel was the final one or reconciliation was still possible, and of what all her former Petersburg acquaintances would say about her now, and how Alexei Alexandrovich would look at it, and many other thoughts of what would happen now, after the break-up, came to her mind, but she did not give herself wholeheartedly to these thoughts. In her soul there was some vague thought which alone interested her, yet she was unable to bring it to consciousness. Having remembered Alexei Alexandrovich once again, she also remembered the time of her illness after giving birth, and the feeling that would not leave her then. 'Why didn't I die?' - she remembered the words she had said then and the feeling she had had then. And she suddenly understood what was in her soul. Yes, this was the thought which alone resolved everything. 'Yes, to die!...