Chapter 12

 

 

—>>>>>>>>><<<<<<<<<—

 

 

WHEN her visitors had taken their leave Anna did not sit down, but began pacing up and down the room. Though she had involuntarily done all in her power to awaken love in Levin (as at that time she always did to all the young men she met), and though she knew she had succeeded in as far as was possible with an honourable married man in one evening, and though she had liked him very much (despite the marked difference between Vronsky and Levin from a man’s point of view, she, as a woman, saw in them that common trait which had caused Kitty to fall in love with them both), yet as soon as he had left the room she ceased to think about him.

 

One thought, and only one, pursued her remorselessly in different forms. ‘If I produce such an effect on others, on this married man who loves his wife, why is he so cold toward me? . . . And it’s not coldness, for I know he loves me, but something fresh now divides us. Why has he been away all the evening? He sent word by Stiva that he could not leave Yashvin, but must keep an eye on his play. Is Yashvin such a child? But admitting that it’s true — he never tells lies — then behind that truth there is something else. He is glad of a chance to show me that he has other obligations. I know he has, I agree to that. But why prove it to me? He wishes to give me proofs that his love of me must not interfere with his freedom. But I don’t need proofs; I need love! He ought to understand the hardship of my life here in Moscow. Is it life? I do not live, but only wait for a solution which is deferred and still deferred. Again no answer! And Stiva says he can’t go to see Alexis Alexandrovich; and I can’t write again. I can’t do anything, begin anything, change anything! I restrain myself, wait, invent occupations for myself — the English family, writing, reading, but all that is only deception, it is all a kind of morphia. He ought to pity me,’ said she, feeling tears of self-compassion rising to her eyes.

 

She heard Vronsky’s vehement ring at the front door and quickly dried her eyes. She even sat down near the lamp and opened a book, pretending to be tranquil. She must let him see that she was displeased that he had not returned when he had promised — displeased, that should be all; she would on no account show him her grief and still less her self-compassion. She might pity herself but he must not pity her. She did not want strife and blamed him for wanting to fight, but yet she involuntarily took up a fighting attitude.

 

‘Well, you’ve not been dull?’ he asked cheerfully and with animation, coming up to her. ‘What a terrible passion gambling is!’

 

‘No, I have not been dull, I have long ago learnt not to feel dull. Stiva and Levin were here.’

 

‘Yes, I knew they were coming to see you. And how did you like Levin?’ he asked, taking a seat beside her.

 

‘Very much. They only left a short while ago. What did Yashvin do?’

 

‘He was lucky and won seventeen thousand. I called him away and very nearly got him to come. But he went back and now has lost more than he had won.’

 

‘Then what was the good of your staying with him?’ she said, suddenly raising her eyes to his face. Her look was cold and hostile. ‘You told Stiva you were staying to bring Yashvin away, but you have left him.’

 

A similar cold expression of readiness for strife appeared on his face.

 

‘For one thing, I did not give him any message for you; and for another I never say what is not true. But chiefly, I wanted to stay, so I stayed,’ he replied with a frown. ‘Anna! Why? Why? . . .’ he asked after a short pause, bending toward her and opening his hand, hoping that she would place hers in it.

 

She was pleased by this appeal to tenderness. But some strange evil power prevented her from yielding to her impulse, as if the conditions of the struggle did not allow her to submit.

 

‘Of course you wished to stay, and stayed. You always do what you wish. But why tell me? Why?’ she said, becoming more and more agitated. ‘Does anyone dispute your right? But you want to be in the right, so in the right you must be!’

 

His hand closed, he leaned back, and his face assumed a still more stubborn look.

 

‘For you it’s a matter of obstinacy,’ she said, after gazing intently at him and suddenly finding a name for that look that irritated her so. ‘Just obstinacy! For you it is a question whether you will conquer me, and for me . . .’ Again she felt sorry for herself and nearly burst into tears. ‘If you only knew what it means to me! When I feel as I do now, that you are hostile toward me — hostile is the right word — if you only knew what that means to me! If you knew how near I am to a catastrophe at such moments . . . how afraid I am! Afraid of myself!’ And she turned away to hide her sobs.

 

‘But what is it all about?’ he said, horrified at her expression of despair, and again leaning toward her he took her hand and kissed it. ‘What have I done? Do I seek amusement outside our home? Do I not avoid the society of women?’

 

‘I should hope so!’ she said.

 

‘Well then, tell me what I should do to make you easy? I am ready to do anything to make you happy,’ he went on, touched by her despair. ‘What would I not do to spare you such grief as this, about I know not what! Anna! . . .’

 

‘Nothing, nothing!’ she replied. ‘I don’t know myself whether it is this lonely life, or nerves. . . . But don’t let’s talk about it! What about the races? You haven’t told me about them,’ and she tried to hide her triumph at her victory, for the victory was hers after all.

 

He asked for supper, and began telling her about the races; but by his tone and by his looks, which grew colder and colder, she saw that he had not forgiven her her victory, and that the obstinacy, against which she had fought, had again taken possession of him. He was colder to her than before, as if he repented of having submitted; and remembering the words which had given her the victory — ‘I am near a catastrophe and afraid of myself’ — she realized that they were a dangerous weapon and must not be used a second time. She felt that side by side with the love that united them there had grown up some evil spirit of strife, which she could not cast out of his heart and still less out of her own.

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter 13

 

 

 

—>>>>>>>>><<<<<<<<<—

 

 

 

THERE are no conditions of life to which a man cannot accustom himself, especially if he sees that every one around him lives in the same way. Three months previously Levin would not have believed that he could quietly fall asleep under the circumstances in which he now found himself: that while leading an aimless, senseless life, one moreover that was above his means; after tippling (he could call what had happened in the club by no other name), after showing unsuitable friendship to the man with whom his wife had once been in love, and after a still more unsuitable visit to a woman who could only be called a fallen woman, and after being allured by her and having grieved his wife — that in such circumstances he could quietly fall asleep. But under the influence of weariness, a sleepless night, and the wine he had drunk, he slept soundly and peacefully.

 

At five in the morning the creak of an opening door awoke him. He jumped up and looked round. Kitty was not in the bed beside him, but on the other side of the partition a light was moving, and he heard her step.

 

‘What is it? What is it? . . .’ he muttered, not yet quite awake. ‘Kitty, what is it?’

 

‘Nothing,’ said she, coming candle in hand from beyond the partition. ‘I only felt a little unwell,’ she added with a peculiarly sweet and significant smile.

 

‘What? Has it begun? Has it?’ he asked in a frightened voice. ‘We must send . . .’ And he began to dress hurriedly.

 

‘No, no,’ she said smiling, holding him back with her hand. ‘I’m sure it’s nothing. I only felt slightly unwell; but it is over now.’

 

She came back to her bed, put out the candle, lay down, and remained quiet. Though that quietness, as if she were holding her breath, and especially the peculiar tenderness and animation with which, returning from the other side of the partition, she had said: ‘It’s nothing!’ seemed to him suspicious, yet he was so sleepy that he fell asleep at once. Only afterwards he remembered that bated breath, and realized all that had passed in her dear sweet soul while she lay motionless by his side, awaiting the greatest event of a woman’s life.

 

At seven o’clock he was awakened by her touch on his shoulder and a soft whisper. She seemed to hesitate between regret at waking him and a desire to speak to him.

 

‘Kostya, don’t be frightened. It’s nothing, but I think . . . We must send for Mary Vlasevna.’

 

The candle was burning again. She was sitting on the bed holding in her hands some knitting she had lately been doing.

 

‘Please don’t be frightened! It’s nothing. I’m not a bit afraid,’ she said on seeing his alarmed face, and she pressed his hand to her breast and then to her lips.

 

He jumped up hastily, hardly aware of himself and without taking his eyes off her put on his dressing-gown and stood still, gazing at her. It was necessary for him to go, but he could not tear himself away from the sight of her. He had loved that face and known all its expressions and looks, but he had never seen her as she was now. How vile and despicable he appeared to himself before her as she now was, when he recollected the grief he had caused her yesterday! Her flushed face surrounded with soft hair that had escaped from beneath her night-cap shone with joy and resolution.

 

Little as there was of affectation and conventionality in Kitty’s general character, yet Levin was astonished at what was revealed to him now that every veil had fallen and the very kernel of her soul shone through her eyes. And in this simplicity, this nakedness of soul, she whom he loved was more apparent than ever. She looked at him smilingly, but suddenly her eyebrows twitched, she raised her head, and coming quickly to him she took hold of his hand and clinging close she enveloped him in her hot breath. She was suffering, and seemed to be complaining to him of her pain. And for a moment from force of habit he felt as if he were in fault. But her look expressed a tenderness which told him that she not only did not blame him, but loved him because of those sufferings. If I am not to blame for it, who is?’ he thought, involuntarily seeking a culprit to punish for these sufferings; but there was no culprit. She suffered, complained, triumphed in her sufferings, rejoiced in them and loved them. He saw that something beautiful was taking place in her soul, but what it was he could not understand. It was above his comprehension.

 

‘I have sent for Mama. And you, go quickly and fetch Mary Vlasevna. . . . Kostya. . . . No, it’s nothing. It’s passed.’

 

She moved away from him and rang.

 

‘Well, go now. Pasha is coming. I am all right.’

 

And Levin saw with amazement that she again took up the knitting which she had fetched in the night, and recommenced work.

 

As Levin went out at one door he heard the maid enter at the other. He stopped at the door and heard Kitty give detailed instructions to the maid, and with her help herself move the bed.

 

He dressed, and while the horse was being harnessed — for it was early, and no izvoshchiks were about yet — he ran back to the bedroom not on tiptoe but, as it seemed to him, on wings. Two maids were busy moving something in the bedroom. Kitty was walking up and down and knitting, rapidly throwing the thread over the needle and giving orders.

 

‘I am going straight to the doctor’s. They have already gone for Mary Vlasevna, but I will call there too. Is anything else wanted? Oh yes, to Dolly!’

 

She looked at him, evidently not listening to what he was saying.

 

‘Yes, yes! Go,’ she said rapidly, frowning and motioning him away with her hand.

 

He was already on his way through the drawing-room when suddenly a piteous moan, that lasted only a moment, reached him from the bedroom. He stopped and for a moment could not understand it.

 

‘Yes, it was she,’ he said and, clasping his head with his hands, he ran downstairs.

 

‘Lord have mercy! Pardon and help us!’ he repeated the words that suddenly and unexpectedly sprang to his lips. And he, an unbeliever, repeated those words not with his lips only. At that instant he knew that neither his doubts nor the impossibility of believing with his reason — of which he was conscious — at all prevented his appealing to God. It all flew off like dust. To whom should he appeal, if not to Him in whose hands he felt himself, his soul, and his love, to be?

 

The horse was not yet ready, but feeling particularly energetic, physically strong and alert to meet what lay before him, so as not to lose a moment he did not wait for it but started off on foot, telling Kuzma to catch him up.

 

At the corner he encountered a night izvoshchik hurrying along. In the little sledge sat Mary Vlasevna in a velvet cloak with a shawl over her head. ‘Thank God!’ he muttered, recognizing with delight her little blonde face, which now wore a particularly serious and even severe expression. Without stopping the izvoshchik he ran back beside her.

 

‘So it began about two hours ago, not more?’ she asked. ‘You will find the doctor, but don’t hurry him. And get some opium at the chemist’s.’

 

‘So you think it may go all right? God have mercy and help us!’ said Levin as he saw his horse coming out of the gateway. Jumping into the sledge beside Kuzma, he ordered him to drive to the doctor’s.

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter 14

 

 

 

—>>>>>>>>><<<<<<<<<—

 

 

 

THE doctor was not yet up, and his footman said he had gone to bed late and given orders that he was not to be called, but the footman added that he would be up soon. The man was cleaning lamp-glasses and seemed quite absorbed in his task. This attention to his glasses and indifference to what was taking place at the Levins’ astonished Levin at first, but he immediately recollected himself and realized that no one knew or was bound to know his feelings, and that it was therefore all the more necessary to act calmly, deliberately, and firmly in order to break through this wall of indifference and to attain his aim. ‘Do not hurry and do not omit anything,’ he said to himself, conscious of an increasing uplift of his physical powers and of his attention to all that lay before him.

 

Having learnt that the doctor was not up yet, Levin, out of the many plans that occurred to him, decided on the following: Kuzma should go with a note to another doctor, while he himself would go to the chemist for the opium; and if the doctor was not up when he returned he would bribe the footman — or if that was impossible, he would enter by force and wake the doctor at all costs.

 

At the chemist’s a skinny dispenser, with the same indifference with which the footman had cleaned his lamp-glasses, closed with a wafer a packet of powders for which a coachman was waiting, and refused to let Levin have any opium. Trying not to hurry and not to get excited, Levin gave the names of the doctor and of the midwife, explained why the opium was wanted, and tried to persuade the dispenser to let him have it. The dispenser asked in German whether he might sell it; and receiving permission from some one behind a screen, took out a bottle and a funnel, slowly poured it from a large bottle into a small one, stuck on a label, and, in spite of Levin’s request that he should not do so, sealed up the bottle, and was about to wrap it up. This was more than Levin could stand; he resolutely snatched the bottle out of the man’s hands and rushed out at the big glass door. The doctor was not up yet, and the footman, now busy putting down a carpet, refused to wake him. Levin deliberately took out a ten-rouble note, and speaking slowly but without losing time, handed him the note and explained that Dr Peter Dmitrich (how great and important this Peter Dmitrich, formerly so insignificant, now appeared to Levin!) had promised to come at any time, and that he would certainly not be angry and must therefore be called at once.

 

The footman consented and went upstairs, asking Levin to step into the waiting-room.

 

Levin could hear the doctor at the other side of the door coughing, walking about, washing, and speaking. Some three minutes elapsed; to Levin they seemed more than an hour. He could not wait any longer.

 

‘Peter Dmitrich! Peter Dmitrich!’ he called out in a tone of entreaty through the open door. ‘For heaven’s sake forgive me! Receive me as you are! It’s over two hours . . .’

 

‘Immediately! Immediately!’ answered a voice, and Levin was astounded to detect that the doctor was smiling as he said it.

 

‘Just for one moment!’

 

‘Immediately!’

 

Two minutes more passed while the doctor put on his boots and two more while he put on his clothes and brushed his hair.

 

‘Peter Dmitrich!’ Levin again began in a piteous voice, but at that instant the doctor came out, dressed and with his hair brushed. ‘These people have no conscience,’ thought Levin. ‘Brushing their hair while we are perishing!’

 

‘Good morning!’ said the doctor, holding out his hand and, as it seemed to Levin, teasing him by his calm manner. ‘Don’t hurry! Well?’

 

Trying to be as exact as possible, Levin began recounting every unnecessary detail of his wife’s position, continually interrupting himself to beg the doctor to accompany him at once.

 

‘Don’t be in such a hurry. You see you are inexperienced, I am sure I shall not be needed, but I promised, and if you like I will come. But there is no hurry. Please sit down. Won’t you have a cup of coffee?’

 

Levin gave the doctor a look which asked whether he was not laughing at him. But the doctor had no idea of laughing.

 

‘I know, I know,’ he said with a smile. ‘I am a family man myself. We husbands are the most miserable of creatures at those times. I have a patient whose husband always runs away into the stable on such occasions!’

 

‘But what is your opinion, Peter Dmitrich? Do you think it may go all right?’

 

‘All the symptoms are favourable.’

 

‘Then you will come at once?’ said Levin, looking angrily at the servant who brought in the coffee.

 

‘In an hour’s time.’

 

‘No, for heaven’s sake . . .’

 

‘Well, only let me finish my coffee.’

 

The doctor began on his coffee. Both kept silence.

 

‘Well, the Turks are being seriously beaten! Did you read yesterday’s telegram?’ asked the doctor, chewing a piece of roll.

 

‘No, I can’t stand it!’ said Levin, jumping up. ‘So you will come in a quarter of an hour?’

 

‘In half an hour.’

 

‘On your honour?’