Anna Karenina (Dole)/Part Seven/Chapter 24
CHAPTER XXIV
"Well, did you have a gay time?" asked Anna, going to meet him with an apologetic and affectionate look on her face.
"As such things usually are," answered he, noticing at once by her face that she was in one of her best moods. He was already accustomed to such metamorphoses, and this time he was particularly glad, because he himself was in his happiest frame of mind. "What do I see? This is good," he added, pointing to the trunks in the entry.
"Yes, we must go. I went out to walk to-day, and it was so good that I longed to get back to the country. There's nothing to keep you here, is there?""I should like nothing better. .... I will be back immediately, and we will talk it over; all I want is to change my coat. Have the tea brought."
There was something irritating in the tone in which he said, "This is good," as one speaks to a child which has ceased to be capricious, and still more irritating was the discrepancy between her apologetic and his self-confident tone, and for a moment she felt rising within her the desire to be pugnacious. But making an effort to restrain herself, she relinquished it, and met Vronsky as gayly as before.
When he came in, she told him calmly the incidents of the day, and her plans for departure, using in part the very words she had thought over.
"Do you know, it came over me like an inspiration," said she,—"why wait here for the divorce? Will it not be all the same when we are in the country? I cannot wait longer. I want to stop hoping about the divorce. I don't want to hear anything more about it. I think it won't have any more effect on my life. Don't you agree with me?"
"Oh, yes!" said he, looking with disquietude at Anna's excited face.
"Come, tell me what you did; who were there?" said she, after a moment's silence.
Vronsky named over the guests.
"The dinner was excellent. And we had a boat-race, and it was all very jolly. But in Moscow nothing can be done sans ridicule. Some woman, the swimming-teacher of the queen of Sweden, gave us an exhibition of her art."
"What! Did she swim for you?" demanded Anna, frowning.
"Yes, in an ugly red costume de natation. She was old and hideous. .... What day do we go?"
"What an inane idea! Was there anything extraordinary about her method of swimming?" asked Anna, not replying to his question.
"Not at all. I tell you it was horribly stupid. When have you decided to go?"Anna tossed her head as if to get rid of a disagreeable thought.
"When shall we go? The sooner the better. Tomorrow we can't, but the day after,"
"Yes .... no .... wait! Day after to-morrow is Monday. I shall have to go to maman" said Vronsky, somewhat confused; because, as he mentioned his mother's name, he saw Anna's eyes fixed with a look of suspicion on him, and his confusion increased her distrust. She forgot the queen of Sweden's swimming-teacher in her alarm about the Princess Sorokin, who was living at a country seat in the suburbs of Moscow with the old countess.
"Can't you go there to-morrow?"
"Why, no! That 's impossible. There is some business that I must attend to,—a power of attorney; and the money will not be ready to-morrow."
"If that is so, we won't go at all."
"But why not?"
"I won't go if it is put off later. Sunday or never!"
"Why so?" cried Vronsky, in astonishment. "There's no sense in that."
"It has no sense for you, because you never take me into account at all. You can't understand my life. The only thing that interests me here is Hannah. You say that it is hypocrisy. You said last evening that I did not love my daughter, but that I pretended to love this English girl, that this was affectation. I should like to know what can be natural in the life I lead here?"
For an instant she came to herself, and was frightened because she had broken her vow. But, though she knew that she was dashing to destruction, she could not resist the temptation of proving to him that he was in the wrong, she could not help heaping insults on him.
"I never said that: I said that I did not sympathize with this sudden tenderness for her."
"Why do you, who boast of being straightforward, tell me a lie?"
"I never boast, and I never tell lies," said he, repressing the anger which was rising within him; "and I am very sorry if you do not respect...."
"Respect! That was invented to cover up the lack of love. If you don't love me any more, it would be better and more honorable to say so."
"No! this is becoming intolerable," cried the count, suddenly leaping from his chair; and, standing in front of her, speaking in measured tones: "Anna," he asked, "why do you try my patience so?" and she could see how he was holding back the bitter words that were ready to escape him. "It has its limits."
"What do you mean by that?" she cried, looking with terror at the unconcealed expression of hate on his whole face, and especially in his fierce, cruel eyes.
"I mean...." he began. Then he stopped. "I have a right to demand what you wish of me."
"What can I wish? I can only wish that you do not abandon me, as you are thinking of doing," she said, comprehending all that he left unsaid. "Everything else is secondary. I wish to be loved; but love is gone. All is over."
She turned toward the door.
"Stop! sto-op!" said Vronsky, still darkly frowning, but holding her by the arm. "What is the trouble? I said that it is necessary to postpone our starting for three days, and you answer by saying that I lie and am dishonorable."
"Yes; and I repeat it that a man who throws it into my face that he has sacrificed everything for me," said she, alluding to a former quarrel, " is worse than dishonorable: he is heartless."
"That settles it; my patience is at an end," cried Vronsky, quickly dropping her hand.
"He hates me; that is certain," she thought, as she went from the room in silence with tottering steps. "He loves some other woman; that is more certain still," she said to herself, as she reached her room. "I wish to be loved, but love is gone. All is over." She repeated the words that she had said,—"I must put an end to it.""But how?" she asked herself, sinking into a chair before her mirror.
The most heterogeneous thoughts crowded upon her. Where should she go? To her aunt, who had brought her up? To Dolly? or simply go abroad alone by herself? What was he doing alone in his study? Would the rupture be final, or was there a possibility of reconciliation? How would Alekseï Aleksandrovitch look upon it? and what would her former acquaintances in Petersburg say? Many other ideas of what would happen came into her mind, but she could not take any satisfactory account of them. A vague idea came into her mind, and awakened some interest, but she could not express it. Thinking once more of Alekseï Aleksandrovitch, she recalled a phrase which she had used after her illness, and the feeling that clung to her,—"Why did n't I die?" and immediately the words awoke the feeling which they had at that time expressed. Yes, that was the idea which alone settled everything.
"Death, yes, that is the only way of escape. My terrible shame, and the dishonor which I have brought on Alekseï Aleksandrovitch and Serozha, all will be wiped away by my death. If I die, he will repent for me then; he will be sorry, he will love me, he will suffer for me."
A smile of pity for herself came over her face as she kept mechanically taking off and putting on the rings of her left hand, and with vivid imagination she pictured how he would feel after she was dead.
Approaching steps—his steps—caught her ears. She affected to be busily engaged in taking off her rings, and did not turn her head.
He came to her, and, taking her hand, said tenderly: "Anna, we will go day after to-morrow if you wish. I am ready for anything. .... Well?" said he, waiting.
She did not speak.
"What do you say?" he asked.
"You yourself know," said she; and then, unable to control herself longer, she burst into tears. "Leave me, leave me," she murmured through her sobs. "I am going away to-morrow I will do more. What am I? A lost woman, a millstone about your neck. I don't want to torment you. I will set you free. You do not love me; you love another."
Vronsky begged her to be calm. He swore there was not the slightest ground for her jealousy, and that he had never ceased and never should cease to love her; that he loved her more than ever.
"Anna, why torture yourself and me so?" he asked, as he kissed her hand. His face expressed the deepest tenderness; and it seemed to her that her ears caught the sound of tears in his voice, and that she felt their moisture on her hand.
Passing suddenly from jealousy to the most passionate tenderness, she covered his head, his neck, his hands, with kisses.