Anna Karenina
legal divorce, that is to say, one in which only the guilty wife would
be repudiated, was impossible of attainment. He saw that the complex
conditions of the life they led made the coarse proofs of his wife’s
guilt, required by the law, out of the question; he saw that a certain
refinement in that life would not admit of such proofs being brought
forward, even if he had them, and that to bring forward such proofs
would damage him in the public estimation more than it would her.
An attempt at divorce could lead to nothing but a public scandal, which
would be a perfect godsend to his enemies for calumny and attacks on
his high position in society. His chief object, to define the position
with the least amount of disturbance possible, would not be attained by
divorce either. Moreover, in the event of divorce, or even of an
attempt to obtain a divorce, it was obvious that the wife broke off all
relations with the husband and threw in her lot with the lover. And in
spite of the complete, as he supposed, contempt and indifference he now
felt for his wife, at the bottom of his heart Alexey Alexandrovitch
still had one feeling left in regard to her—a disinclination to see her
free to throw in her lot with Vronsky, so that her crime would be to
her advantage. The mere notion of this so exasperated Alexey
Alexandrovitch, that directly it rose to his mind he groaned with
inward agony, and got up and changed his place in the carriage, and for
a long while after, he sat with scowling brows, wrapping his numbed and
bony legs in the fleecy rug.
“Apart from formal divorce, One might still do like Karibanov,
Paskudin, and that good fellow Dram—that is, separate from one’s wife,”
he went on thinking, when he had regained his composure. But this step
too presented the same drawback of public scandal as a divorce, and
what was more, a separation, quite as much as a regular divorce, flung
his wife into the arms of Vronsky. “No, it’s out of the question, out
of the question!” he said again, twisting his rug about him again. “I
cannot be unhappy, but neither she nor he ought to be happy.”
The feeling of jealousy, which had tortured him during the period of
uncertainty, had passed away at the instant when the tooth had been
with agony extracted by his wife’s words. But that feeling had been
replaced by another, the desire, not merely that she should not be
triumphant, but that she should get due punishment for her crime. He
did not acknowledge this feeling, but at the bottom of his heart he
longed for her to suffer for having destroyed his peace of mind—his
honor. And going once again over the conditions inseparable from a
duel, a divorce, a separation, and once again rejecting them, Alexey
Alexandrovitch felt convinced that there was only one solution,—to keep
her with him, concealing what had happened from the world, and using
every measure in his power to break off the intrigue, and still
more—though this he did not admit to himself—to punish her. “I must
inform her of my conclusion, that thinking over the terrible position
in which she has placed her family, all other solutions will be worse
for both sides than an external _status quo_, and that such I agree to
retain, on the strict condition of obedience on her part to my wishes,
that is to say, cessation of all intercourse with her lover.” When this
decision had been finally adopted, another weighty consideration
occurred to Alexey Alexandrovitch in support of it. “By such a course
only shall I be acting in accordance with the dictates of religion,” he
told himself. “In adopting this course, I am not casting off a guilty
wife, but giving her a chance of amendment; and, indeed, difficult as
the task will be to me, I shall devote part of my energies to her
reformation and salvation.”
Though Alexey Alexandrovitch was perfectly aware that he could not
exert any moral influence over his wife, that such an attempt at
reformation could lead to nothing but falsity; though in passing
through these difficult moments he had not once thought of seeking
guidance in religion, yet now, when his conclusion corresponded, as it
seemed to him, with the requirements of religion, this religious
sanction to his decision gave him complete satisfaction, and to some
extent restored his peace of mind. He was pleased to think that, even
in such an important crisis in life, no one would be able to say that
he had not acted in accordance with the principles of that religion
whose banner he had always held aloft amid the general coolness and
indifference. As he pondered over subsequent developments, Alexey
Alexandrovitch did not see, indeed, why his relations with his wife
should not remain practically the same as before. No doubt, she could
never regain his esteem, but there was not, and there could not be, any
sort of reason that his existence should be troubled, and that he
should suffer because she was a bad and faithless wife. “Yes, time will
pass; time, which arranges all things, and the old relations will be
reestablished,” Alexey Alexandrovitch told himself; “so far
reestablished, that is, that I shall not be sensible of a break in the
continuity of my life. She is bound to be unhappy, but I am not to
blame, and so I cannot be unhappy.”
Chapter 14
As he neared Petersburg, Alexey Alexandrovitch not only adhered
entirely to his decision, but was even composing in his head the letter
he would write to his wife. Going into the porter’s room, Alexey
Alexandrovitch glanced at the letters and papers brought from his
office, and directed that they should be brought to him in his study.
“The horses can be taken out and I will see no one,” he said in answer
to the porter, with a certain pleasure, indicative of his agreeable
frame of mind, emphasizing the words, “see no one.”
In his study Alexey Alexandrovitch walked up and down twice, and
stopped at an immense writing-table, on which six candles had already
been lighted by the valet who had preceded him. He cracked his knuckles
and sat down, sorting out his writing appurtenances. Putting his elbows
on the table, he bent his head on one side, thought a minute, and began
to write, without pausing for a second. He wrote without using any form
of address to her, and wrote in French, making use of the plural
“_vous_,” which has not the same note of coldness as the corresponding
Russian form.
“At our last conversation, I notified you of my intention to
communicate to you my decision in regard to the subject of that
conversation. Having carefully considered everything, I am writing now
with the object of fulfilling that promise. My decision is as follows.
Whatever your conduct may have been, I do not consider myself justified
in breaking the ties in which we are bound by a Higher Power. The
family cannot be broken up by a whim, a caprice, or even by the sin of
one of the partners in the marriage, and our life must go on as it has
done in the past. This is essential for me, for you, and for our son. I
am fully persuaded that you have repented and do repent of what has
called forth the present letter, and that you will cooperate with me in
eradicating the cause of our estrangement, and forgetting the past. In
the contrary event, you can conjecture what awaits you and your son.
All this I hope to discuss more in detail in a personal interview. As
the season is drawing to a close, I would beg you to return to
Petersburg as quickly as possible, not later than Tuesday. All
necessary preparations shall be made for your arrival here. I beg you
to note that I attach particular significance to compliance with this
request.
A. Karenin
“_P.S._—I enclose the money which may be needed for your expenses.”
He read the letter through and felt pleased with it, and especially
that he had remembered to enclose money: there was not a harsh word,
not a reproach in it, nor was there undue indulgence. Most of all, it
was a golden bridge for return. Folding the letter and smoothing it
with a massive ivory knife, and putting it in an envelope with the
money, he rang the bell with the gratification it always afforded him
to use the well arranged appointments of his writing-table.
“Give this to the courier to be delivered to Anna Arkadyevna tomorrow
at the summer villa,” he said, getting up.
“Certainly, your excellency; tea to be served in the study?”
Alexey Alexandrovitch ordered tea to be brought to the study, and
playing with the massive paper-knife, he moved to his easy chair, near
which there had been placed ready for him a lamp and the French work on
Egyptian hieroglyphics that he had begun. Over the easy chair there
hung in a gold frame an oval portrait of Anna, a fine painting by a
celebrated artist. Alexey Alexandrovitch glanced at it. The
unfathomable eyes gazed ironically and insolently at him. Insufferably
insolent and challenging was the effect in Alexey Alexandrovitch’s eyes
of the black lace about the head, admirably touched in by the painter,
the black hair and handsome white hand with one finger lifted, covered
with rings. After looking at the portrait for a minute, Alexey
Alexandrovitch shuddered so that his lips quivered and he uttered the
sound “brrr,” and turned away. He made haste to sit down in his easy
chair and opened the book. He tried to read, but he could not revive
the very vivid interest he had felt before in Egyptian hieroglyphics.
He looked at the book and thought of something else. He thought not of
his wife, but of a complication that had arisen in his official life,
which at the time constituted the chief interest of it. He felt that he
had penetrated more deeply than ever before into this intricate affair,
and that he had originated a leading idea—he could say it without
self-flattery—calculated to clear up the whole business, to strengthen
him in his official career, to discomfit his enemies, and thereby to be
of the greatest benefit to the government. Directly the servant had set
the tea and left the room, Alexey Alexandrovitch got up and went to the
writing-table. Moving into the middle of the table a portfolio of
papers, with a scarcely perceptible smile of self-satisfaction, he took
a pencil from a rack and plunged into the perusal of a complex report
relating to the present complication. The complication was of this
nature: Alexey Alexandrovitch’s characteristic quality as a politician,
that special individual qualification that every rising functionary
possesses, the qualification that with his unflagging ambition, his
reserve, his honesty, and with his self-confidence had made his career,
was his contempt for red tape, his cutting down of correspondence, his
direct contact, wherever possible, with the living fact, and his
economy. It happened that the famous Commission of the 2nd of June had
set on foot an inquiry into the irrigation of lands in the Zaraisky
province, which fell under Alexey Alexandrovitch’s department, and was
a glaring example of fruitless expenditure and paper reforms. Alexey
Alexandrovitch was aware of the truth of this. The irrigation of these
lands in the Zaraisky province had been initiated by the predecessor of
Alexey Alexandrovitch’s predecessor. And vast sums of money had
actually been spent and were still being spent on this business, and
utterly unproductively, and the whole business could obviously lead to
nothing whatever. Alexey Alexandrovitch had perceived this at once on
entering office, and would have liked to lay hands on the Board of
Irrigation. But at first, when he did not yet feel secure in his
position, he knew it would affect too many interests, and would be
injudicious. Later on he had been engrossed in other questions, and had
simply forgotten the Board of Irrigation. It went of itself, like all