mustn’t think,” she said to herself. “I must get ready. To go where? When?
Whom to take with me? Yes, to Moscow by the evening train. Annushka
and Seryozha, and only the most necessary things. But first I must write to
them both.” She went quickly indoors into her boudoir, sat down at the
table, and wrote to her husband:—“After what has happened, I cannot
remain any longer in your house. I am going away, and taking my son with
me. I don’t know the law, and so I don’t know with which of the parents the
son should remain; but I take him with me because I cannot live without
him. Be generous, leave him to me.”
Up to this point she wrote rapidly and naturally, but the appeal to his
generosity, a quality she did not recognize in him, and the necessity of
winding up the letter with something touching, pulled her up. “Of my fault
and my remorse I cannot speak, because….”
She stopped again, finding no connection in her ideas. “No,” she said to
herself, “there’s no need of anything,” and tearing up the letter, she wrote it
again, leaving out the allusion to generosity, and sealed it up.
Another letter had to be written to Vronsky. “I have told my husband,”
she wrote, and she sat a long while unable to write more. It was so coarse,
so unfeminine. “And what more am I to write to him?” she said to herself.
Again a flush of shame spread over her face; she recalled his composure,
and a feeling of anger against him impelled her to tear the sheet with the
phrase she had written into tiny bits. “No need of anything,” she said to
herself, and closing her blotting-case she went upstairs, told the governess
and the servants that she was going that day to Moscow, and at once set to
work to pack up her things.
Chapter 16
All the rooms of the summer villa were full of porters, gardeners, and
footmen going to and fro carrying out things. Cupboards and chests were
open; twice they had sent to the shop for cord; pieces of newspaper were
tossing about on the floor. Two trunks, some bags and strapped-up rugs, had
been carried down into the hall. The carriage and two hired cabs were
waiting at the steps. Anna, forgetting her inward agitation in the work of
packing, was standing at a table in her boudoir, packing her traveling bag,
when Annushka called her attention to the rattle of some carriage driving
up. Anna looked out of the window and saw Alexey Alexandrovitch’s
courier on the steps, ringing at the front door bell.
“Run and find out what it is,” she said, and with a calm sense of being
prepared for anything, she sat down in a low chair, folding her hands on her
knees. A footman brought in a thick packet directed in Alexey
Alexandrovitch’s hand.
“The courier has orders to wait for an answer,” he said.
“Very well,” she said, and as soon as he had left the room she tore open
the letter with trembling fingers. A roll of unfolded notes done up in a
wrapper fell out of it. She disengaged the letter and began reading it at the
end. “Preparations shall be made for your arrival here … I attach particular
significance to compliance….” she read. She ran on, then back, read it all
through, and once more read the letter all through again from the beginning.
When she had finished, she felt that she was cold all over, and that a fearful
calamity, such as she had not expected, had burst upon her.
In the morning she had regretted that she had spoken to her husband, and
wished for nothing so much as that those words could be unspoken. And
here this letter regarded them as unspoken, and gave her what she had
wanted. But now this letter seemed to her more awful than anything she had
been able to conceive.
“He’s right!” she said; “of course, he’s always right; he’s a Christian, he’s
generous! Yes, vile, base creature! And no one understands it except me,
and no one ever will; and I can’t explain it. They say he’s so religious, so
high-principled, so upright, so clever; but they don’t see what I’ve seen.
They don’t know how he has crushed my life for eight years, crushed
everything that was living in me—he has not once even thought that I’m a
live woman who must have love. They don’t know how at every step he’s
humiliated me, and been just as pleased with himself. Haven’t I striven,
striven with all my strength, to find something to give meaning to my life?
Haven’t I struggled to love him, to love my son when I could not love my
husband? But the time came when I knew that I couldn’t cheat myself any
longer, that I was alive, that I was not to blame, that God has made me so
that I must love and live. And now what does he do? If he’d killed me, if
he’d killed him, I could have borne anything, I could have forgiven
anything; but, no, he…. How was it I didn’t guess what he would do? He’s
doing just what’s characteristic of his mean character. He’ll keep himself in
the right, while me, in my ruin, he’ll drive still lower to worse ruin yet….”
She recalled the words from the letter. “You can conjecture what awaits
you and your son….” “That’s a threat to take away my child, and most likely
by their stupid law he can. But I know very well why he says it. He doesn’t
believe even in my love for my child, or he despises it (just as he always
used to ridicule it). He despises that feeling in me, but he knows that I
won’t abandon my child, that I can’t abandon my child, that there could be
no life for me without my child, even with him whom I love; but that if I
abandoned my child and ran away from him, I should be acting like the
most infamous, basest of women. He knows that, and knows that I am
incapable of doing that.”
She recalled another sentence in the letter. “Our life must go on as it has
done in the past….” “That life was miserable enough in the old days; it has
been awful of late. What will it be now? And he knows all that; he knows
that I can’t repent that I breathe, that I love; he knows that it can lead to
nothing but lying and deceit; but he wants to go on torturing me. I know
him; I know that he’s at home and is happy in deceit, like a fish swimming
in the water. No, I won’t give him that happiness. I’ll break through the
spiderweb of lies in which he wants to catch me, come what may.
Anything’s better than lying and deceit.”
“But how? My God! my God! Was ever a woman so miserable as I
am?…”
“No; I will break through it, I will break through it!” she cried, jumping
up and keeping back her tears. And she went to the writing-table to write
him another letter. But at the bottom of her heart she felt that she was not
strong enough to break through anything, that she was not strong enough to
get out of her old position, however false and dishonorable it might be.
She sat down at the writing-table, but instead of writing she clasped her
hands on the table, and, laying her head on them, burst into tears, with sobs
and heaving breast like a child crying. She was weeping that her dream of
her position being made clear and definite had been annihilated forever. She
knew beforehand that everything would go on in the old way, and far worse,
indeed, than in the old way. She felt that the position in the world that she
enjoyed, and that had seemed to her of so little consequence in the morning,
