Anna Karenina
behave in regard to all the complex and insoluble problems with which
life is encompassed on all sides; they behaved with propriety, avoiding
allusions and unpleasant questions. They assumed an air of fully
comprehending the import and force of the situation, of accepting and
even approving of it, but of considering it superfluous and uncalled
for to put all this into words.
Vronsky at once divined that Golenishtchev was of this class, and
therefore was doubly pleased to see him. And in fact, Golenishtchev’s
manner to Madame Karenina, when he was taken to call on her, was all
that Vronsky could have desired. Obviously without the slightest effort
he steered clear of all subjects which might lead to embarrassment.
He had never met Anna before, and was struck by her beauty, and still
more by the frankness with which she accepted her position. She blushed
when Vronsky brought in Golenishtchev, and he was extremely charmed by
this childish blush overspreading her candid and handsome face. But
what he liked particularly was the way in which at once, as though on
purpose that there might be no misunderstanding with an outsider, she
called Vronsky simply Alexey, and said they were moving into a house
they had just taken, what was here called a palazzo. Golenishtchev
liked this direct and simple attitude to her own position. Looking at
Anna’s manner of simple-hearted, spirited gaiety, and knowing Alexey
Alexandrovitch and Vronsky, Golenishtchev fancied that he understood
her perfectly. He fancied that he understood what she was utterly
unable to understand: how it was that, having made her husband
wretched, having abandoned him and her son and lost her good name, she
yet felt full of spirits, gaiety, and happiness.
“It’s in the guide-book,” said Golenishtchev, referring to the palazzo
Vronsky had taken. “There’s a first-rate Tintoretto there. One of his
latest period.”
“I tell you what: it’s a lovely day, let’s go and have another look at
it,” said Vronsky, addressing Anna.
“I shall be very glad to; I’ll go and put on my hat. Would you say it’s
hot?” she said, stopping short in the doorway and looking inquiringly
at Vronsky. And again a vivid flush overspread her face.
Vronsky saw from her eyes that she did not know on what terms he cared
to be with Golenishtchev, and so was afraid of not behaving as he would
wish.
He looked a long, tender look at her.
“No, not very,” he said.
And it seemed to her that she understood everything, most of all, that
he was pleased with her; and smiling to him, she walked with her rapid
step out at the door.
The friends glanced at one another, and a look of hesitation came into
both faces, as though Golenishtchev, unmistakably admiring her, would
have liked to say something about her, and could not find the right
thing to say, while Vronsky desired and dreaded his doing so.
“Well then,” Vronsky began to start a conversation of some sort; “so
you’re settled here? You’re still at the same work, then?” he went on,
recalling that he had been told Golenishtchev was writing something.
“Yes, I’m writing the second part of the _Two Elements_,” said
Golenishtchev, coloring with pleasure at the question—“that is, to be
exact, I am not writing it yet; I am preparing, collecting materials.
It will be of far wider scope, and will touch on almost all questions.
We in Russia refuse to see that we are the heirs of Byzantium,” and he
launched into a long and heated explanation of his views.
Vronsky at the first moment felt embarrassed at not even knowing of the
first part of the _Two Elements_, of which the author spoke as
something well known. But as Golenishtchev began to lay down his
opinions and Vronsky was able to follow them even without knowing the
_Two Elements_, he listened to him with some interest, for
Golenishtchev spoke well. But Vronsky was startled and annoyed by the
nervous irascibility with which Golenishtchev talked of the subject
that engrossed him. As he went on talking, his eyes glittered more and
more angrily; he was more and more hurried in his replies to imaginary
opponents, and his face grew more and more excited and worried.
Remembering Golenishtchev, a thin, lively, good-natured and well-bred
boy, always at the head of the class, Vronsky could not make out the
reason of his irritability, and he did not like it. What he
particularly disliked was that Golenishtchev, a man belonging to a good
set, should put himself on a level with some scribbling fellows, with
whom he was irritated and angry. Was it worth it? Vronsky disliked it,
yet he felt that Golenishtchev was unhappy, and was sorry for him.
Unhappiness, almost mental derangement, was visible on his mobile,
rather handsome face, while without even noticing Anna’s coming in, he
went on hurriedly and hotly expressing his views.
When Anna came in in her hat and cape, and her lovely hand rapidly
swinging her parasol, and stood beside him, it was with a feeling of
relief that Vronsky broke away from the plaintive eyes of Golenishtchev
which fastened persistently upon him, and with a fresh rush of love
looked at his charming companion, full of life and happiness.
Golenishtchev recovered himself with an effort, and at first was
dejected and gloomy, but Anna, disposed to feel friendly with everyone
as she was at that time, soon revived his spirits by her direct and
lively manner. After trying various subjects of conversation, she got
him upon painting, of which he talked very well, and she listened to
him attentively. They walked to the house they had taken, and looked
over it.
“I am very glad of one thing,” said Anna to Golenishtchev when they
were on their way back, “Alexey will have a capital _atelier_. You must
certainly take that room,” she said to Vronsky in Russian, using the
affectionately familiar form as though she saw that Golenishtchev would
become intimate with them in their isolation, and that there was no
need of reserve before him.
“Do you paint?” said Golenishtchev, turning round quickly to Vronsky.
“Yes, I used to study long ago, and now I have begun to do a little,”
said Vronsky, reddening.
“He has great talent,” said Anna with a delighted smile. “I’m no judge,
of course. But good judges have said the same.”
Chapter 8
Anna, in that first period of her emancipation and rapid return to
health, felt herself unpardonably happy and full of the joy of life.
The thought of her husband’s unhappiness did not poison her happiness.
On one side that memory was too awful to be thought of. On the other
side her husband’s unhappiness had given her too much happiness to be
regretted. The memory of all that had happened after her illness: her
reconciliation with her husband, its breakdown, the news of Vronsky’s
wound, his visit, the preparations for divorce, the departure from her
husband’s house, the parting from her son—all that seemed to her like a
delirious dream, from which she had waked up alone with Vronsky abroad.
The thought of the harm caused to her husband aroused in her a feeling
like repulsion, and akin to what a drowning man might feel who has
shaken off another man clinging to him. That man did drown. It was an
evil action, of course, but it was the sole means of escape, and better
not to brood over these fearful facts.
One consolatory reflection upon her conduct had occurred to her at the
first moment of the final rupture, and when now she recalled all the
past, she remembered that one reflection. “I have inevitably made that
man wretched,” she thought; “but I don’t want to profit by his misery.
I too am suffering, and shall suffer; I am losing what I prized above
everything—I am losing my good name and my son. I have done wrong, and
so I don’t want happiness, I don’t want a divorce, and shall suffer
from my shame and the separation from my child.” But, however sincerely
Anna had meant to suffer, she was not suffering. Shame there was not.
With the tact of which both had such a large share, they had succeeded
in avoiding Russian ladies abroad, and so had never placed themselves
in a false position, and everywhere they had met people who pretended
that they perfectly understood their position, far better indeed than
they did themselves. Separation from the son she loved—even that did
not cause her anguish in these early days. The baby girl—_his_
child—was so sweet, and had so won Anna’s heart, since she was all that
was left her, that Anna rarely thought of her son.
The desire for life, waxing stronger with recovered health, was so
intense, and the conditions of life were so new and pleasant, that Anna
felt unpardonably happy. The more she got to know Vronsky, the more she
loved him. She loved him for himself, and for his love for her. Her
complete ownership of him was a continual joy to her. His presence was
always sweet to her. All the traits of his character, which she learned
to know better and better, were unutterably dear to her. His
appearance, changed by his civilian dress, was as fascinating to her as
though she were some young girl in love. In everything he said,
thought, and did, she saw something particularly noble and elevated.
Her adoration of him alarmed her indeed; she sought and could not find
in him anything not fine. She dared not show him her sense of her own
insignificance beside him. It seemed to her that, knowing this, he
might sooner cease to love her; and she dreaded nothing now so much as
losing his love, though she had no grounds for fearing it. But she
could not help being grateful to him for his attitude to her, and
showing that she appreciated it. He, who had in her opinion such a
marked aptitude for a political career, in which he would have been
certain to play a leading part—he had sacrificed his ambition for her
sake, and never betrayed the slightest regret. He was more lovingly
respectful to her than ever, and the constant care that she should not
feel the awkwardness of her position never deserted him for a single
instant. He, so manly a man, never opposed her, had indeed, with her,
no will of his own, and was anxious, it seemed, for nothing but to
anticipate her wishes. And she could not but appreciate this, even
though the very intensity of his solicitude for her, the atmosphere of
care with which he surrounded her, sometimes weighed upon her.
Vronsky, meanwhile, in spite of the complete realization of what he had
so long desired, was not perfectly happy. He soon felt that the
realization of his desires gave him no more than a grain of sand out of
the mountain of happiness he had expected. It showed him the mistake
men make in picturing to themselves happiness as the realization of
their desires. For a time after joining his life to hers, and putting
on civilian dress, he had felt all the delight of freedom in general of
which he had known nothing before, and of freedom in his love,—and he
was content, but not for long. He was soon aware that there was
springing up in his heart a desire for desires—_ennui_. Without
conscious intention he began to clutch at every passing caprice, taking
it for a desire and an object. Sixteen hours of the day must be
occupied in some way, since they were living abroad in complete
freedom, outside the conditions of social life which filled up time in
Petersburg. As for the amusements of bachelor existence, which had
provided Vronsky with entertainment on previous tours abroad, they
could not be thought of, since the sole attempt of the sort had led to
a sudden attack of depression in Anna, quite out of proportion with the
cause—a late supper with bachelor friends. Relations with the society
of the place—foreign and Russian—were equally out of the question owing
to the irregularity of their position. The inspection of objects of