Anna Karenina
stepped out into the frosty air with Stepan Arkadyevitch.
“Well, didn’t I tell you?” said Stepan Arkadyevitch, seeing that Levin
had been completely won over.
“Yes,” said Levin dreamily, “an extraordinary woman! It’s not her
cleverness, but she has such wonderful depth of feeling. I’m awfully
sorry for her!”
“Now, please God, everything will soon be settled. Well, well, don’t be
hard on people in future,” said Stepan Arkadyevitch, opening the
carriage door. “Good-bye; we don’t go the same way.”
Still thinking of Anna, of everything, even the simplest phrase in
their conversation with her, and recalling the minutest changes in her
expression, entering more and more into her position, and feeling
sympathy for her, Levin reached home.
At home Kouzma told Levin that Katerina Alexandrovna was quite well,
and that her sisters had not long been gone, and he handed him two
letters. Levin read them at once in the hall, that he might not
overlook them later. One was from Sokolov, his bailiff. Sokolov wrote
that the corn could not be sold, that it was fetching only five and a
half roubles, and that more than that could not be got for it. The
other letter was from his sister. She scolded him for her business
being still unsettled.
“Well, we must sell it at five and a half if we can’t get more,” Levin
decided the first question, which had always before seemed such a
weighty one, with extraordinary facility on the spot. “It’s
extraordinary how all one’s time is taken up here,” he thought,
considering the second letter. He felt himself to blame for not having
got done what his sister had asked him to do for her. “Today, again,
I’ve not been to the court, but today I’ve certainly not had time.” And
resolving that he would not fail to do it next day, he went up to his
wife. As he went in, Levin rapidly ran through mentally the day he had
spent. All the events of the day were conversations, conversations he
had heard and taken part in. All the conversations were upon subjects
which, if he had been alone at home, he would never have taken up, but
here they were very interesting. And all these conversations were right
enough, only in two places there was something not quite right. One was
what he had said about the carp, the other was something not “quite the
thing” in the tender sympathy he was feeling for Anna.
Levin found his wife low-spirited and dull. The dinner of the three
sisters had gone off very well, but then they had waited and waited for
him, all of them had felt dull, the sisters had departed, and she had
been left alone.
“Well, and what have you been doing?” she asked him, looking straight
into his eyes, which shone with rather a suspicious brightness. But
that she might not prevent his telling her everything, she concealed
her close scrutiny of him, and with an approving smile listened to his
account of how he had spent the evening.
“Well, I’m very glad I met Vronsky. I felt quite at ease and natural
with him. You understand, I shall try not to see him, but I’m glad that
this awkwardness is all over,” he said, and remembering that by way of
trying not to see him, he had immediately gone to call on Anna, he
blushed. “We talk about the peasants drinking; I don’t know which
drinks most, the peasantry or our own class; the peasants do on
holidays, but....”
But Kitty took not the slightest interest in discussing the drinking
habits of the peasants. She saw that he blushed, and she wanted to know
why.
“Well, and then where did you go?”
“Stiva urged me awfully to go and see Anna Arkadyevna.”
And as he said this, Levin blushed even more, and his doubts as to
whether he had done right in going to see Anna were settled once for
all. He knew now that he ought not to have done so.
Kitty’s eyes opened in a curious way and gleamed at Anna’s name, but
controlling herself with an effort, she concealed her emotion and
deceived him.
“Oh!” was all she said.
“I’m sure you won’t be angry at my going. Stiva begged me to, and Dolly
wished it,” Levin went on.
“Oh, no!” she said, but he saw in her eyes a constraint that boded him
no good.
“She is a very sweet, very, very unhappy, good woman,” he said, telling
her about Anna, her occupations, and what she had told him to say to
her.
“Yes, of course, she is very much to be pitied,” said Kitty, when he
had finished. “Whom was your letter from?”
He told her, and believing in her calm tone, he went to change his
coat.
Coming back, he found Kitty in the same easy chair. When he went up to
her, she glanced at him and broke into sobs.
“What? what is it?” he asked, knowing beforehand what.
“You’re in love with that hateful woman; she has bewitched you! I saw
it in your eyes. Yes, yes! What can it all lead to? You were drinking
at the club, drinking and gambling, and then you went ... to her of all
people! No, we must go away.... I shall go away tomorrow.”
It was a long while before Levin could soothe his wife. At last he
succeeded in calming her, only by confessing that a feeling of pity, in
conjunction with the wine he had drunk, had been too much for him, that
he had succumbed to Anna’s artful influence, and that he would avoid
her. One thing he did with more sincerity confess to was that living so
long in Moscow, a life of nothing but conversation, eating and
drinking, he was degenerating. They talked till three o’clock in the
morning. Only at three o’clock were they sufficiently reconciled to be
able to go to sleep.
Chapter 12
After taking leave of her guests, Anna did not sit down, but began
walking up and down the room. She had unconsciously the whole evening
done her utmost to arouse in Levin a feeling of love—as of late she had
fallen into doing with all young men—and she knew she had attained her
aim, as far as was possible in one evening, with a married and
conscientious man. She liked him indeed extremely, and, in spite of the
striking difference, from the masculine point of view, between Vronsky
and Levin, as a woman she saw something they had in common, which had
made Kitty able to love both. Yet as soon as he was out of the room,
she ceased to think of him.
One thought, and one only, pursued her in different forms, and refused
to be shaken off. “If I have so much effect on others, on this man, who
loves his home and his wife, why is it _he_ is so cold to me?... not
cold exactly, he loves me, I know that! But something new is drawing us
apart now. Why wasn’t he here all the evening? He told Stiva to say he
could not leave Yashvin, and must watch over his play. Is Yashvin a
child? But supposing it’s true. He never tells a lie. But there’s
something else in it if it’s true. He is glad of an opportunity of
showing me that he has other duties; I know that, I submit to that. But
why prove that to me? He wants to show me that his love for me is not
to interfere with his freedom. But I need no proofs, I need love. He
ought to understand all the bitterness of this life for me here in
Moscow. Is this life? I am not living, but waiting for an event, which
is continually put off and put off. No answer again! And Stiva says he
cannot go to Alexey Alexandrovitch. And I can’t write again. I can do
nothing, can begin nothing, can alter nothing; I hold myself in, I
wait, inventing amusements for myself—the English family, writing,
reading—but it’s all nothing but a sham, it’s all the same as morphine.
He ought to feel for me,” she said, feeling tears of self-pity coming
into her eyes.
She heard Vronsky’s abrupt ring and hurriedly dried her tears—not only
dried her tears, but sat down by a lamp and opened a book, affecting
composure. She wanted to show him that she was displeased that he had
not come home as he had promised—displeased only, and not on any
account to let him see her distress, and least of all, her self-pity.
She might pity herself, but he must not pity her. She did not want
strife, she blamed him for wanting to quarrel, but unconsciously put
herself into an attitude of antagonism.
“Well, you’ve not been dull?” he said, eagerly and good-humoredly,
going up to her. “What a terrible passion it is—gambling!”
“No, I’ve not been dull; I’ve learned long ago not to be dull. Stiva
has been here and Levin.”
“Yes, they meant to come and see you. Well, how did you like Levin?” he
said, sitting down beside her.
“Very much. They have not long been gone. What was Yashvin doing?”
“He was winning—seventeen thousand. I got him away. He had really
started home, but he went back again, and now he’s losing.”
“Then what did you stay for?” she asked, suddenly lifting her eyes to
him. The expression of her face was cold and ungracious. “You told
Stiva you were staying on to get Yashvin away. And you have left him
there.”
The same expression of cold readiness for the conflict appeared on his
face too.
“In the first place, I did not ask him to give you any message; and
secondly, I never tell lies. But what’s the chief point, I wanted to
stay, and I stayed,” he said, frowning. “Anna, what is it for, why will
you?” he said after a moment’s silence, bending over towards her, and
he opened his hand, hoping she would lay hers in it.
She was glad of this appeal for tenderness. But some strange force of
evil would not let her give herself up to her feelings, as though the
rules of warfare would not permit her to surrender.
“Of course you wanted to stay, and you stayed. You do everything you
want to. But what do you tell me that for? With what object?” she said,
getting more and more excited. “Does anyone contest your rights? But
you want to be right, and you’re welcome to be right.”
His hand closed, he turned away, and his face wore a still more
obstinate expression.
“For you it’s a matter of obstinacy,” she said, watching him intently
and suddenly finding the right word for that expression that irritated
her, “simply obstinacy. For you it’s a question of whether you keep the
upper hand of me, while for me....” Again she felt sorry for herself,
and she almost burst into tears. “If you knew what it is for me! When I
feel as I do now that you are hostile, yes, hostile to me, if you knew
what this means for me! If you knew how I feel on the brink of calamity
at this instant, how afraid I am of myself!” And she turned away,
hiding her sobs.
“But what are you talking about?” he said, horrified at her expression
of despair, and again bending over her, he took her hand and kissed it.
“What is it for? Do I seek amusements outside our home? Don’t I avoid
the society of women?”
“Well, yes! If that were all!” she said.
“Come, tell me what I ought to do to give you peace of mind? I am ready
to do anything to make you happy,” he said, touched by her expression
of despair; “what wouldn’t I do to save you from distress of any sort,
as now, Anna!” he said.
“It’s nothing, nothing!” she said. “I don’t know myself whether it’s
the solitary life, my nerves.... Come, don’t let us talk of it. What
about the race? You haven’t told me!” she inquired, trying to conceal
her triumph at the victory, which had anyway been on her side.
He asked for supper, and began telling her about the races; but in his
tone, in his eyes, which became more and more cold, she saw that he did
not forgive her for her victory, that the feeling of obstinacy with
which she had been struggling had asserted itself again in him. He was
colder to her than before, as though he were regretting his surrender.
And she, remembering the words that had given her the victory, “how I
feel on the brink of calamity, how afraid I am of myself,” saw that
this weapon was a dangerous one, and that it could not be used a second
time. And she felt that beside the love that bound them together there