THIRTY-FIVE

Chapter 21

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‘I HAVE come for you; your washing has taken a long time!’ said Petritsky. ‘Well, is it done?’
‘Yes, it’s done,’ said Vronsky, smiling with his eyes and twirling the ends of his moustache as carefully as if, after the order he had established in his affairs, any too vigorous or rapid movement might upset it.
‘After it, you always look as if you have come out of a Russian bath,’ said Petritsky, ‘and I have come straight from Gritska’ (the name by which they called their Commanding Officer). ‘They’re expecting you.’
Vronsky looked at his comrade without answering, thinking about something else.
‘Is that where the music is?’ he said, listening to the familiar strains, now audible, of brass instruments playing polkas and waltzes. ‘What’s up?’
‘Serpukhovskoy has arrived.’
‘Ah! I did not know,’ exclaimed Vronsky.
His smiling eyes shone still more brightly.
Having made up his mind that he was happy in his love, and having sacrificed his ambitions to it, or at any rate assumed that rôle, Vronsky could no longer feel envious of Serpukhovskoy nor vexed with him for not coming straight to see him on reaching the regiment. Serpukhovskoy was a good friend and he was glad that he would see him.
‘I am very glad.’
Demin the C.O. occupied a large country house, and the whole party were gathered together on the roomy verandah. In the grounds, what first met Vronsky’s eyes were the soldier-singers in their white linen uniforms, standing beside a cask of vodka, then the jolly, healthy figure of the C.O. surrounded by his officers. Having come out on the top step of the verandah, he was gesticulating and above the noise of the band (which was playing a quadrille of Offenbach’s) was loudly giving orders to some soldiers who were standing somewhat apart. A group of soldiers, a sergeant-major and some other non-commissioned officers, came up to the verandah at the same time as Vronsky. After returning to the table, the Commander again came forward with a glass of champagne in his hand and announced a toast: ‘To the health of our late comrade, the gallant General, Prince Serpukhovskoy! Hurrah!’
Following the Commander, champagne glass in hand, Serpukhovskoy came down smiling:
‘You are growing younger every day, Bondarenko!’ he remarked to the ruddy-faced, smart-looking sergeant-major, serving for a second term, who stood just in front of him.
Vronsky had not seen Serpukhovskoy for three years. He had matured and had grown whiskers, but still had just as good a figure, and was just as striking — not so much for his good looks as for the delicacy and nobility of his face and bearing. One change Vronsky noticed in him was that quiet and permanent radiance which comes upon the faces of people who have succeeded and feel assured that everybody recognizes their success. Vronsky knew that kind of radiance, and noticed it at once on Serpukhovskoy’s face.
As he was descending the steps Serpukhovskoy noticed Vronsky. A smile of joy lit up his face. He jerked his head backwards and raised his glass, welcoming Vronsky, and showing by this gesture that he must first go to the sergeant-major, who was already stretching himself and puckering his lips for a kiss.
‘Ah, here he is!’ exclaimed the Commander, ‘and Yashvin told me that you were in one of your dismal moods.’
Serpukhovskoy kissed the smart-looking sergeant-major on his moist fresh lips and, wiping his mouth on his handkerchief, stepped up to Vronsky.
‘Well, I am glad!’ he said, taking him apart and pressing his hand.
‘You look after him,’ shouted the Commander to Yashvin, and went out to the soldiers.
‘Why were you not at the races yesterday? I thought I should see you there,’ asked Vronsky, examining Serpukhovskoy.
‘I did come, but late. Excuse me!’ he added, and turned to his adjutant. ‘Please give order to distribute this money equally among the men.’
He hurriedly took three one-hundred-rouble notes out of his pocket-book and blushed.
‘Vronsky, will you eat something, or have a drink?’ said Yashvin. ‘Hey! Bring the Count something to eat! Here, drink this!’
The carousing at the house of the C.O. continued long.
They drank a great deal. Serpukhovskoy was lifted and tossed by the officers. Then the C.O. was tossed. Then the C.O. danced with Petritsky in front of the singers. After that, feeling rather weak, he sat down on a bench in the yard and began demonstrating to Yashvin Russia’s superiority to Prussia, especially in cavalry charges, and the carousal quieted down for a moment. Serpukhovskoy went to the dressing-room to wash his hands, and found Vronsky there. Vronsky had taken off his coat and was washing his hairy red neck under the washstand tap, rubbing it and his head with his hands. When he had finished his ablutions Vronsky sat down beside Serpukhovskoy on a little sofa in the dressing-room and began a conversation of great interest to both of them.
‘I used to hear all about you from my wife,’ said Serpukhovskoy. ‘I am glad you saw a good deal of her.’
‘She is friends with Varya, and they are the only women in Petersburg whom it is a pleasure for me to meet,’ said Vronsky with a smile. He smiled because he foresaw the turn their conversation would take and was pleased.
‘The only ones?’ asked Serpukhovskoy, smiling.
‘Yes, and I used to hear about you, but not only from your wife,’ said Vronsky, checking the hint by a serious look. ‘I am very glad of your success but not at all surprised. I expected even more.’
Serpukhovskoy smiled. Vronsky’s opinion of him evidently gave him pleasure and he saw no reason to hide it.
‘I, on the contrary — I must frankly admit — expected less. But I am pleased, very pleased; I am ambitious, it is my weakness, and I acknowledge it.’
‘Perhaps you would not if you were not successful,’ said Vronsky.
‘I do not think so,’ and Serpukhovskoy smiled again. ‘I do not mean to say I could not live without it, but it would be a bore. Of course I may be making a mistake, but I believe I have some capacity for the career I have adopted, and that in my hands power of any kind, if I ever possess it, will be used in a better way than in the hands of many whom I know,’ said he with the radiant consciousness of success. ‘Therefore the nearer I am to getting it the more pleased I am.’
‘It may be so for you, but not for every one. I used to think the same, yet here I am living and find that it is not worth while living for that alone,’ said Vronsky.
‘There you are! There you are!’ said Serpukhovskoy, laughing. ‘I had begun by saying that I used to hear about you, and your refusal. . . . Of course I approved of it. But there is a way of doing a thing, and I think that, though your action was good in itself, you did not do it the right way.’
‘What is done is done, and you know that I never go back on what I have done. Besides, I am quite all right.’
‘All right for a time! But you will not remain satisfied for long. I should not say that to your brother. He is a dear child, just like this host of ours: hear him!’ he added, listening to the cries of ‘Hurrah!’ ‘And he is happy, but that would not satisfy you.’
‘I do not say that it would.’
‘And that is not all: men like you are wanted.’
‘By whom?’
‘By whom? By Society; by Russia. Russia is in need of men, needs a Party — without it everything is going and will go to the dogs.’
‘What do you mean? Bertenev’s Party, in opposition to the Russian Communists?’
‘No,’ said Serpukhovskoy, frowning with vexation at being suspected of such nonsense. ‘Tout ça est une blague. [All that is humbug.] It always has existed and always will. There are no Communists whatever. But scheming people always have invented and always will invent some harmful and dangerous Party. That’s an old trick. What is wanted is an influential Party of independent men like you and me.’
‘But why — ’ Vronsky named several influential men, ‘why are not they independent men?’
‘Only because they have not, or had not by birth, an independent position — had no name, were not born as near the sun as we were. They can be bought by money or by affability, and must invent a theory to keep their positions. And they bring forward some idea, some theory (in which they themselves do not believe and which does harm) merely as a means of procuring government quarters and a salary. Cela n’est pas plus fin que ça [That’s all there is in it], if you happen to see their cards. Maybe I am worse and more foolish than they, though I do not see why I am worse than they. Anyhow you and I have one great advantage: we cannot be bought so easily. And such men are more needed than ever.’
Vronsky listened attentively, but it was not so much the meaning of Serpukhovskoy’s words that interested him as his outlook on these questions, for Serpukhovskoy was already dreaming of a struggle with the powers-that-be and already had sympathies and antipathies in that sphere, whereas Vronsky’s interest in the service was limited to his own squadron. Vronsky realized, too, how powerful Serpukhovskoy might become by his undoubted capacity for reflection and comprehension, and by his intellect and gift of speech, so seldom met with in the Society in which he lived. And, ashamed as he was of the fact, he felt jealous.
‘All the same I lack the most necessary thing,’ he replied. ‘I lack the wish for power. I had it once, but it is gone.’
‘Pardon me, that is not true,’ said Serpukhovskoy with a smile.
‘Yes, it is, it is true . . . at present — to be quite frank,’ added Vronsky.
‘Yes, it is true at present — that is another matter, but the present will not last for ever.’
‘Perhaps,’ said Vronsky.
‘You say “perhaps”,’ continued Serpukhovskoy as if he had guessed Vronsky’s thoughts; ‘but I say, certainly. That is why I wanted to see you. You acted rightly: I quite understand it. But you must not persevere in it. I only ask you to give me carte blanche. I am not patronizing you. . . . Though why should I not patronize you? You have so often patronized me! I hope our friendship is above that sort of thing! Yes,’ he said with a smile tender as a woman’s, ‘Give me carte blanche, leave the regiment, and I will draw you on imperceptibly.’
‘But try to understand that I do want nothing except that everything should remain as it is,’ said Vronsky.
Serpukhovskoy rose and said, as he stood before Vronsky, ‘You say, “that all should remain as it is”! I know what you mean, but hear me! We are both of the same age; it may be that in number you have known more women than I have,’ the smile of Serpukhovskoy’s face and his gesture showed that Vronsky need have no fear, and that he would touch the tender spot gently and carefully. ‘But I am married, and believe me, that “knowing only your wife, whom you love” — as somebody once said — “you can understand all women better than if you knew thousands”.’
‘We will come in a minute,’ Vronsky shouted to an officer who looked in, having been sent by the C.O. to call them.
Vronsky was anxious now to hear the rest of what Serpukhovskoy had to say.
‘Here is my opinion. Women are the chief stumbling-block in a man’s career. It is difficult to love a woman and do anything else. To achieve it and to love in comfort and unhampered, the only way is to marry! How am I to put to you what I think?’ and Serpukhovskoy, who was fond of similes, went on: ‘Wait a bit! Wait a bit. . . . Yes, if you had to carry a load and use your hands at the same time, it would be possible only if the load were strapped on your back: and that is marriage. I found that out when I married. I suddenly had my hands free. But if you drag that load without marriage, your hands are so full that you can do nothing else. Look at Mazankov, at Krupov! They have ruined their careers because of women.’
‘But what women!’ said Vronsky, recalling the Frenchwoman and the actress with whom these men were entangled.
‘So much the worse! The more assured the position of the woman in the world, the worse it is! That is not like merely dragging a load with one’s hands, it is like wrenching it from some one else.’
‘You have never loved,’ said Vronsky softly, with his eyes looking straight before him and with Anna in his thoughts.
‘Perhaps not! But another point: women are always more materialistic than men. Men make of love something enormous, but women are always terre-à-terre [down to earth].’
‘Coming, coming!’ he said, turning to a footman who had entered. But the footman had not come to call them, as Serpukhovskoy thought. He brought Vronsky a note.
‘Your man brought this from the Princess Tverskaya.’
Vronsky opened the note and his face flushed. ‘My head has begun aching,’ he said. ‘I shall go home.’
‘Well, then, good-bye! Do you give me carte blanche?’
‘We’ll talk it over another time. I will look you up in Petersburg.’

Chapter 22

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IT was already past five, and in order not to be late and not to use his own horses, which were known to everybody, Vronsky took Yashvin’s hired carriage and told the coachman to drive as fast as possible. The old four-seated hired vehicle was very roomy; he sat down in a corner, put his legs on the opposite seat, and began to think. A vague sense of the accomplished cleaning up of his affairs, a vague memory of Serpukhovskoy’s friendship for him, and the flattering thought that the latter considered him a necessary man, and above all the anticipation of the coming meeting, merged into one general feeling of joyful vitality. This feeling was so strong that he could not help smiling. He put down his legs, threw one of them over the other, and placing his arm across it felt its firm calf where he had hurt it in the fall the day before, and then, throwing himself back, sighed deeply several times.
‘Delightful! O delightful!’ he thought. He had often before been joyfully conscious of his body, but had never loved himself, his own body, as he did now. It gave him pleasure to feel the slight pain in his strong leg, to be conscious of the muscles of his chest moving as he breathed. That clear, cool August day which made Anna feel so hopeless seemed exhilarating and invigorating to him and refreshed his face and neck, which were glowing after their washing and rubbing. The scent of brilliantine given off by his moustache seemed peculiarly pleasant in the fresh air. All that he saw from the carriage window through the cold pure air in the pale light of the evening sky seemed as fresh, bright and vigorous as he was himself. The roofs of the houses glittered in the evening sun; the sharp outlines of the fences and the corners of buildings, the figures of people and vehicles they occasionally met, the motionless verdure of the grass and trees, the fields of potatoes with their clear-cut ridges, the slanting shadows of the houses and trees, the bushes and even the potato ridges — it was all pleasant and like a landscape newly painted and varnished.
‘Get on, get on!’ he shouted to the coachman, thrusting himself out of the window; and taking a three-rouble note from his pocket he put it into the man’s hand as the latter turned round. The coachman felt something in his hand, the whip cracked, and the carriage rolled quickly along the smooth macadamized high road.
‘I want nothing, nothing but that happiness,’ he thought, staring at the ivory knob of the bell between the front windows of the carriage, his mind full of Anna as he had last seen her.
‘And the longer it continues the more I love her! And here is the garden of Vrede’s country house. Where is she? Where? Why? Why has she given me an appointment here, in a letter from Betsy?’ he thought; but there was no longer any time for thinking. Before reaching the avenue he ordered the coachman to stop, opened the carriage door, jumped out while the carriage was still moving, and went up the avenue leading to the house. There was no one in the avenue, but turning to the right he saw her. Her face was veiled, but his joyous glance took in that special manner of walking peculiar to her alone: the droop of her shoulders, the poise of her head; and immediately a thrill passed like an electric current through his body, and with renewed force he became conscious of himself from the elastic movement of his firm legs to the motion of his lungs as he breathed, and of something tickling his lips. On reaching him she clasped his hand firmly.
‘You are not angry that I told you to come? It was absolutely necessary for me to see you,’ she said; and at sight of the serious and severe expression of her mouth under her veil his mood changed at once.
‘I angry? But how did you get here?’
‘Never mind!’ she said, putting her hand on his arm. ‘Come, I must speak to you.’
He felt that something had happened, and that this interview would not be a happy one. In her presence he had no will of his own: without knowing the cause of her agitation he became infected by it.
‘What is it? What?’ he asked, pressing her hand against his side with his elbow and trying to read her face.
She took a few steps in silence to gather courage, and then suddenly stopped.
‘I did not tell you last night,’ she began, breathing quickly and heavily, ‘that on my way back with Alexis Alexandrovich I told him everything . . . said I could not be his wife, and . . . I told him all.’
He listened, involuntarily leaning forward with his whole body as if trying to ease her burden. But as soon as she had spoken he straightened himself and his face assumed a proud and stern expression.
‘Yes, yes, that is better! A thousand times better! I understand how hard it must have been for you,’ he said, but she was not listening to his words — only trying to read his thoughts from his face. She could not guess that it expressed the first idea that had entered Vronsky’s mind: the thought of an inevitable duel; therefore she explained that momentary look of severity in another way. After reading her husband’s letter she knew in the depths of her heart that all would remain as it was, that she would not have the courage to disregard her position and give up her son in order to be united with her lover. The afternoon spent at the Princess Tverskaya’s house had confirmed that thought. Yet this interview was still of extreme importance to her. She hoped that the meeting might bring about a change in her position and save her. If at this news he would firmly, passionately, and without a moment’s hesitation say to her: ‘Give up everything and fly with me!’ she would abandon her son and go with him. But the news had not the effect on him that she had desired: he only looked as if he had been offended by something. ‘It was not at all hard for me — it all came about of itself,’ she said, irritably. ‘And here . . .’ she pulled her husband’s note from under her glove.
‘I understand, I understand,’ he interrupted, taking the note but not reading it, and trying to soothe her. ‘I only want one thing, I only ask for one thing: to destroy this situation in order to devote my life to your happiness.’
‘Why do you tell me this?’ she said. ‘Do you think I could doubt it? If I doubted it . . .’
‘Who’s that coming?’ said Vronsky, pointing to two ladies who were coming toward them. ‘They may know us!’ and he moved quickly in the direction of a sidewalk, drawing her along with him.
‘Oh, I don’t care!’ she said. Her lips trembled and her eyes seemed to him to be looking at him with strange malevolence from under the veil. ‘As I was saying, that’s not the point! I cannot doubt that, but see what he writes to me. Read — ’ she stopped again.
Again, as at the first moment when he heard the news of her having spoken to her husband, Vronsky yielded to the natural feeling produced by the thoughts of his relation to the injured husband. Now that he held his letter he could not help imagining to himself the challenge that he would no doubt find waiting for him that evening or next day, and the duel, when he would be standing with the same cold proud look as his face bore that moment, and having fired into the air would be awaiting the shot from the injured husband. And at that instant the thought of what Serpukhovskoy had just been saying to him and of what had occurred to him that morning (that it was better not to bind himself) flashed through his mind, and he knew that he could not pass on the thought to her.
After he had read the letter he looked up at her, but his look was not firm. She understood at once that he had already considered this by himself, knew that whatever he might say he would not tell her all that he was thinking, and knew that her last hopes had been deceived. This was not what she had expected.
‘You see what a man he is!’ she said in a trembling voice. ‘He . . .’
‘Forgive, me, but I am glad of it!’ Vronsky interrupted. ‘For God’s sake hear me out!’ he added, with an air of entreaty that she would let him explain his words. ‘I am glad because I know that it is impossible, quite impossible for things to remain as they are, as he imagines.’
‘Why impossible?’ said Anna, forcing back her tears and clearly no longer attaching any importance to what he would say. She felt that her fate was decided.
Vronsky wanted to say that after what he considered to be the inevitable duel it could not continue; but he said something else.
‘It cannot continue. I hope that you will now leave him. I hope . . .’he became confused and blushed, ‘that you will allow me to arrange, and to think out a life for ourselves. To-morrow . . .’ he began but she did not let him finish.
‘And my son?’ she exclaimed. ‘You see what he writes? I must leave him, and I cannot do that and do not want to.’
‘But for heaven’s sake, which is better? To leave your son, or to continue in this degrading situation?’
‘Degrading for whom?’
‘For everybody, and especially for you.’
‘You call it degrading! do not call it that; such words have no meaning for me,’ she replied tremulously. She did not wish him to tell untruths now. She had only his love left, and she wanted to love him. ‘Try to understand that since I loved you everything has changed for me. There is only one single thing in the world for me: your love! If I have it, I feel so high and firm that nothing can be degrading for me. I am proud of my position because . . . proud of . . . proud . . .’ she could not say what she was proud of. Tears of shame and despair choked her. She stopped and burst into sobs. He also felt something rising in his throat, and for the first time in his life he felt ready to cry. He could not explain what it was that had so moved him; he was sorry for her and felt that he could not help her, because he knew that he was the cause of her trouble, that he had done wrong.
‘Would divorce be impossible?’ he asked weakly. She silently shook her head. ‘Would it not be possible to take your son away with you and go away all the same?’
‘Yes, but all that depends on him. Now I go back to him,’ she said dryly. Her foreboding that everything would remain as it was had not deceived her.
‘On Tuesday I shall go back to Petersburg and everything will be decided. Yes,’ she said, ‘but don’t let us talk about it.’
Anna’s carriage, which she had sent away and ordered to return to the gate of the Vrede Garden, drove up. Anna took leave of Vronsky and went home.