Anna Karenina
generous word when it was once uttered, even though he felt now,
vaguely foreseeing certain eventualities in his intrigue with Madame
Karenina, that this generous word had been spoken thoughtlessly, and
that even though he were not married he might need all the hundred
thousand of income. But it was impossible to draw back. He had only to
recall his brother’s wife, to remember how that sweet, delightful Varya
sought, at every convenient opportunity, to remind him that she
remembered his generosity and appreciated it, to grasp the
impossibility of taking back his gift. It was as impossible as beating
a woman, stealing, or lying. One thing only could and ought to be done,
and Vronsky determined upon it without an instant’s hesitation: to
borrow money from a money-lender, ten thousand roubles, a proceeding
which presented no difficulty, to cut down his expenses generally, and
to sell his race horses. Resolving on this, he promptly wrote a note to
Rolandak, who had more than once sent to him with offers to buy horses
from him. Then he sent for the Englishman and the money-lender, and
divided what money he had according to the accounts he intended to pay.
Having finished this business, he wrote a cold and cutting answer to
his mother. Then he took out of his notebook three notes of Anna’s,
read them again, burned them, and remembering their conversation on the
previous day, he sank into meditation.
Chapter 20
Vronsky’s life was particularly happy in that he had a code of
principles, which defined with unfailing certitude what he ought and
what he ought not to do. This code of principles covered only a very
small circle of contingencies, but then the principles were never
doubtful, and Vronsky, as he never went outside that circle, had never
had a moment’s hesitation about doing what he ought to do. These
principles laid down as invariable rules: that one must pay a
cardsharper, but need not pay a tailor; that one must never tell a lie
to a man, but one may to a woman; that one must never cheat anyone, but
one may a husband; that one must never pardon an insult, but one may
give one and so on. These principles were possibly not reasonable and
not good, but they were of unfailing certainty, and so long as he
adhered to them, Vronsky felt that his heart was at peace and he could
hold his head up. Only quite lately in regard to his relations with
Anna, Vronsky had begun to feel that his code of principles did not
fully cover all possible contingencies, and to foresee in the future
difficulties and perplexities for which he could find no guiding clue.
His present relation to Anna and to her husband was to his mind clear
and simple. It was clearly and precisely defined in the code of
principles by which he was guided.
She was an honorable woman who had bestowed her love upon him, and he
loved her, and therefore she was in his eyes a woman who had a right to
the same, or even more, respect than a lawful wife. He would have had
his hand chopped off before he would have allowed himself by a word, by
a hint, to humiliate her, or even to fall short of the fullest respect
a woman could look for.
His attitude to society, too, was clear. Everyone might know, might
suspect it, but no one might dare to speak of it. If any did so, he was
ready to force all who might speak to be silent and to respect the
non-existent honor of the woman he loved.
His attitude to the husband was the clearest of all. From the moment
that Anna loved Vronsky, he had regarded his own right over her as the
one thing unassailable. Her husband was simply a superfluous and
tiresome person. No doubt he was in a pitiable position, but how could
that be helped? The one thing the husband had a right to was to demand
satisfaction with a weapon in his hand, and Vronsky was prepared for
this at any minute.
But of late new inner relations had arisen between him and her, which
frightened Vronsky by their indefiniteness. Only the day before she had
told him that she was with child. And he felt that this fact and what
she expected of him called for something not fully defined in that code
of principles by which he had hitherto steered his course in life. And
he had been indeed caught unawares, and at the first moment when she
spoke to him of her position, his heart had prompted him to beg her to
leave her husband. He had said that, but now thinking things over he
saw clearly that it would be better to manage to avoid that; and at the
same time, as he told himself so, he was afraid whether it was not
wrong.
“If I told her to leave her husband, that must mean uniting her life
with mine; am I prepared for that? How can I take her away now, when I
have no money? Supposing I could arrange.... But how can I take her
away while I’m in the service? If I say that—I ought to be prepared to
do it, that is, I ought to have the money and to retire from the army.”
And he grew thoughtful. The question whether to retire from the service
or not brought him to the other and perhaps the chief though hidden
interest of his life, of which none knew but he.
Ambition was the old dream of his youth and childhood, a dream which he
did not confess even to himself, though it was so strong that now this
passion was even doing battle with his love. His first steps in the
world and in the service had been successful, but two years before he
had made a great mistake. Anxious to show his independence and to
advance, he had refused a post that had been offered him, hoping that
this refusal would heighten his value; but it turned out that he had
been too bold, and he was passed over. And having, whether he liked or
not, taken up for himself the position of an independent man, he
carried it off with great tact and good sense, behaving as though he
bore no grudge against anyone, did not regard himself as injured in any
way, and cared for nothing but to be left alone since he was enjoying
himself. In reality he had ceased to enjoy himself as long ago as the
year before, when he went away to Moscow. He felt that this independent
attitude of a man who might have done anything, but cared to do
nothing, was already beginning to pall, that many people were beginning
to fancy that he was not really capable of anything but being a
straightforward, good-natured fellow. His connection with Madame
Karenina, by creating so much sensation and attracting general
attention, had given him a fresh distinction which soothed his gnawing
worm of ambition for a while, but a week before that worm had been
roused up again with fresh force. The friend of his childhood, a man of
the same set, of the same coterie, his comrade in the Corps of Pages,
Serpuhovskoy, who had left school with him and had been his rival in
class, in gymnastics, in their scrapes and their dreams of glory, had
come back a few days before from Central Asia, where he had gained two
steps up in rank, and an order rarely bestowed upon generals so young.
As soon as he arrived in Petersburg, people began to talk about him as
a newly risen star of the first magnitude. A schoolfellow of Vronsky’s
and of the same age, he was a general and was expecting a command,
which might have influence on the course of political events; while
Vronsky, independent and brilliant and beloved by a charming woman
though he was, was simply a cavalry captain who was readily allowed to
be as independent as ever he liked. “Of course I don’t envy
Serpuhovskoy and never could envy him; but his advancement shows me
that one has only to watch one’s opportunity, and the career of a man
like me may be very rapidly made. Three years ago he was in just the
same position as I am. If I retire, I burn my ships. If I remain in the
army, I lose nothing. She said herself she did not wish to change her
position. And with her love I cannot feel envious of Serpuhovskoy.” And
slowly twirling his mustaches, he got up from the table and walked
about the room. His eyes shone particularly brightly, and he felt in
that confident, calm, and happy frame of mind which always came after
he had thoroughly faced his position. Everything was straight and
clear, just as after former days of reckoning. He shaved, took a cold
bath, dressed and went out.
Chapter 21
“We’ve come to fetch you. Your _lessive_ lasted a good time today,”
said Petritsky. “Well, is it over?”
“It is over,” answered Vronsky, smiling with his eyes only, and
twirling the tips of his mustaches as circumspectly as though after the
perfect order into which his affairs had been brought any over-bold or
rapid movement might disturb it.
“You’re always just as if you’d come out of a bath after it,” said
Petritsky. “I’ve come from Gritsky’s” (that was what they called the
colonel); “they’re expecting you.”
Vronsky, without answering, looked at his comrade, thinking of
something else.
“Yes; is that music at his place?” he said, listening to the familiar
sounds of polkas and waltzes floating across to him. “What’s the fête?”
“Serpuhovskoy’s come.”
“Aha!” said Vronsky, “why, I didn’t know.”
The smile in his eyes gleamed more brightly than ever.
Having once made up his mind that he was happy in his love, that he
sacrificed his ambition to it—having anyway taken up this position,
Vronsky was incapable of feeling either envious of Serpuhovskoy or hurt
with him for not coming first to him when he came to the regiment.
Serpuhovskoy was a good friend, and he was delighted he had come.
“Ah, I’m very glad!”
The colonel, Demin, had taken a large country house. The whole party
were in the wide lower balcony. In the courtyard the first objects that
met Vronsky’s eyes were a band of singers in white linen coats,
standing near a barrel of vodka, and the robust, good-humored figure of
the colonel surrounded by officers. He had gone out as far as the first
step of the balcony and was loudly shouting across the band that played
Offenbach’s quadrille, waving his arms and giving some orders to a few
soldiers standing on one side. A group of soldiers, a quartermaster,
and several subalterns came up to the balcony with Vronsky. The colonel
returned to the table, went out again onto the steps with a tumbler in
his hand, and proposed the toast, “To the health of our former comrade,
the gallant general, Prince Serpuhovskoy. Hurrah!”
The colonel was followed by Serpuhovskoy, who came out onto the steps
smiling, with a glass in his hand.
“You always get younger, Bondarenko,” he said to the rosy-cheeked,
smart-looking quartermaster standing just before him, still youngish
looking though doing his second term of service.
It was three years since Vronsky had seen Serpuhovskoy. He looked more
robust, had let his whiskers grow, but was still the same graceful
creature, whose face and figure were even more striking from their
softness and nobility than their beauty. The only change Vronsky
detected in him was that subdued, continual radiance of beaming content
which settles on the faces of men who are successful and are sure of
the recognition of their success by everyone. Vronsky knew that radiant
air, and immediately observed it in Serpuhovskoy.
As Serpuhovskoy came down the steps he saw Vronsky. A smile of pleasure
lighted up his face. He tossed his head upwards and waved the glass in
his hand, greeting Vronsky, and showing him by the gesture that he
could not come to him before the quartermaster, who stood craning
forward his lips ready to be kissed.
“Here he is!” shouted the colonel. “Yashvin told me you were in one of
your gloomy tempers.”
Serpuhovskoy kissed the moist, fresh lips of the gallant-looking
quartermaster, and wiping his mouth with his handkerchief, went up to
Vronsky.
“How glad I am!” he said, squeezing his hand and drawing him on one
side.