this, he promptly wrote a note to Rolandak, who had more than once sent to
him with offers to buy horses from him. Then he sent for the Englishman
and the money-lender, and divided what money he had according to the
accounts he intended to pay. Having finished this business, he wrote a cold
and cutting answer to his mother. Then he took out of his notebook three
notes of Anna’s, read them again, burned them, and remembering their
conversation on the previous day, he sank into meditation.
Chapter 20
Vronsky’s life was particularly happy in that he had a code of principles,
which defined with unfailing certitude what he ought and what he ought not
to do. This code of principles covered only a very small circle of
contingencies, but then the principles were never doubtful, and Vronsky, as
he never went outside that circle, had never had a moment’s hesitation
about doing what he ought to do. These principles laid down as invariable
rules: that one must pay a cardsharper, but need not pay a tailor; that one
must never tell a lie to a man, but one may to a woman; that one must never
cheat anyone, but one may a husband; that one must never pardon an insult,
but one may give one and so on. These principles were possibly not
reasonable and not good, but they were of unfailing certainty, and so long as
he adhered to them, Vronsky felt that his heart was at peace and he could
hold his head up. Only quite lately in regard to his relations with Anna,
Vronsky had begun to feel that his code of principles did not fully cover all
possible contingencies, and to foresee in the future difficulties and
perplexities for which he could find no guiding clue.
His present relation to Anna and to her husband was to his mind clear and
simple. It was clearly and precisely defined in the code of principles by
which he was guided.
She was an honorable woman who had bestowed her love upon him, and
he loved her, and therefore she was in his eyes a woman who had a right to
the same, or even more, respect than a lawful wife. He would have had his
hand chopped off before he would have allowed himself by a word, by a
hint, to humiliate her, or even to fall short of the fullest respect a woman
could look for.
His attitude to society, too, was clear. Everyone might know, might
suspect it, but no one might dare to speak of it. If any did so, he was ready
to force all who might speak to be silent and to respect the non-existent
honor of the woman he loved.
His attitude to the husband was the clearest of all. From the moment that
Anna loved Vronsky, he had regarded his own right over her as the one
thing unassailable. Her husband was simply a superfluous and tiresome
person. No doubt he was in a pitiable position, but how could that be
helped? The one thing the husband had a right to was to demand
satisfaction with a weapon in his hand, and Vronsky was prepared for this at
any minute.
But of late new inner relations had arisen between him and her, which
frightened Vronsky by their indefiniteness. Only the day before she had told
him that she was with child. And he felt that this fact and what she expected
of him called for something not fully defined in that code of principles by
which he had hitherto steered his course in life. And he had been indeed
caught unawares, and at the first moment when she spoke to him of her
position, his heart had prompted him to beg her to leave her husband. He
had said that, but now thinking things over he saw clearly that it would be
better to manage to avoid that; and at the same time, as he told himself so,
he was afraid whether it was not wrong.
“If I told her to leave her husband, that must mean uniting her life with
mine; am I prepared for that? How can I take her away now, when I have no
money? Supposing I could arrange…. But how can I take her away while
I’m in the service? If I say that—I ought to be prepared to do it, that is, I
ought to have the money and to retire from the army.”
And he grew thoughtful. The question whether to retire from the service
or not brought him to the other and perhaps the chief though hidden interest
of his life, of which none knew but he.
Ambition was the old dream of his youth and childhood, a dream which
he did not confess even to himself, though it was so strong that now this
passion was even doing battle with his love. His first steps in the world and
in the service had been successful, but two years before he had made a great
mistake. Anxious to show his independence and to advance, he had refused
a post that had been offered him, hoping that this refusal would heighten his
value; but it turned out that he had been too bold, and he was passed over.
And having, whether he liked or not, taken up for himself the position of an
independent man, he carried it off with great tact and good sense, behaving
as though he bore no grudge against anyone, did not regard himself as
injured in any way, and cared for nothing but to be left alone since he was
enjoying himself. In reality he had ceased to enjoy himself as long ago as
the year before, when he went away to Moscow. He felt that this
independent attitude of a man who might have done anything, but cared to
do nothing, was already beginning to pall, that many people were beginning
to fancy that he was not really capable of anything but being a
straightforward, good-natured fellow. His connection with Madame
Karenina, by creating so much sensation and attracting general attention,
had given him a fresh distinction which soothed his gnawing worm of
ambition for a while, but a week before that worm had been roused up again
with fresh force. The friend of his childhood, a man of the same set, of the
same coterie, his comrade in the Corps of Pages, Serpuhovskoy, who had
left school with him and had been his rival in class, in gymnastics, in their
scrapes and their dreams of glory, had come back a few days before from
Central Asia, where he had gained two steps up in rank, and an order rarely
bestowed upon generals so young.
As soon as he arrived in Petersburg, people began to talk about him as a
newly risen star of the first magnitude. A schoolfellow of Vronsky’s and of
the same age, he was a general and was expecting a command, which might
have influence on the course of political events; while Vronsky,
independent and brilliant and beloved by a charming woman though he
was, was simply a cavalry captain who was readily allowed to be as
independent as ever he liked. “Of course I don’t envy Serpuhovskoy and
never could envy him; but his advancement shows me that one has only to
watch one’s opportunity, and the career of a man like me may be very
rapidly made. Three years ago he was in just the same position as I am. If I
retire, I burn my ships. If I remain in the army, I lose nothing. She said
herself she did not wish to change her position. And with her love I cannot
feel envious of Serpuhovskoy.” And slowly twirling his mustaches, he got
up from the table and walked about the room. His eyes shone particularly
brightly, and he felt in that confident, calm, and happy frame of mind which
always came after he had thoroughly faced his position. Everything was
straight and clear, just as after former days of reckoning. He shaved, took a
cold bath, dressed and went out.
