Chapter 8
Anna, in that first period of her emancipation and rapid return to health,
felt herself unpardonably happy and full of the joy of life. The thought of
her husband’s unhappiness did not poison her happiness. On one side that
memory was too awful to be thought of. On the other side her husband’s
unhappiness had given her too much happiness to be regretted. The memory
of all that had happened after her illness: her reconciliation with her
husband, its breakdown, the news of Vronsky’s wound, his visit, the
preparations for divorce, the departure from her husband’s house, the
parting from her son—all that seemed to her like a delirious dream, from
which she had waked up alone with Vronsky abroad. The thought of the
harm caused to her husband aroused in her a feeling like repulsion, and akin
to what a drowning man might feel who has shaken off another man
clinging to him. That man did drown. It was an evil action, of course, but it
was the sole means of escape, and better not to brood over these fearful
facts.
One consolatory reflection upon her conduct had occurred to her at the
first moment of the final rupture, and when now she recalled all the past,
she remembered that one reflection. “I have inevitably made that man
wretched,” she thought; “but I don’t want to profit by his misery. I too am
suffering, and shall suffer; I am losing what I prized above everything—I
am losing my good name and my son. I have done wrong, and so I don’t
want happiness, I don’t want a divorce, and shall suffer from my shame and
the separation from my child.” But, however sincerely Anna had meant to
suffer, she was not suffering. Shame there was not. With the tact of which
both had such a large share, they had succeeded in avoiding Russian ladies
abroad, and so had never placed themselves in a false position, and
everywhere they had met people who pretended that they perfectly
understood their position, far better indeed than they did themselves.
Separation from the son she loved—even that did not cause her anguish in
these early days. The baby girl—his child—was so sweet, and had so won
Anna’s heart, since she was all that was left her, that Anna rarely thought of
her son.
The desire for life, waxing stronger with recovered health, was so
intense, and the conditions of life were so new and pleasant, that Anna felt
unpardonably happy. The more she got to know Vronsky, the more she
loved him. She loved him for himself, and for his love for her. Her complete
ownership of him was a continual joy to her. His presence was always
sweet to her. All the traits of his character, which she learned to know better
and better, were unutterably dear to her. His appearance, changed by his
civilian dress, was as fascinating to her as though she were some young girl
in love. In everything he said, thought, and did, she saw something
particularly noble and elevated. Her adoration of him alarmed her indeed;
she sought and could not find in him anything not fine. She dared not show
him her sense of her own insignificance beside him. It seemed to her that,
knowing this, he might sooner cease to love her; and she dreaded nothing
now so much as losing his love, though she had no grounds for fearing it.
But she could not help being grateful to him for his attitude to her, and
showing that she appreciated it. He, who had in her opinion such a marked
aptitude for a political career, in which he would have been certain to play a
leading part—he had sacrificed his ambition for her sake, and never
betrayed the slightest regret. He was more lovingly respectful to her than
ever, and the constant care that she should not feel the awkwardness of her
position never deserted him for a single instant. He, so manly a man, never
opposed her, had indeed, with her, no will of his own, and was anxious, it
seemed, for nothing but to anticipate her wishes. And she could not but
appreciate this, even though the very intensity of his solicitude for her, the
atmosphere of care with which he surrounded her, sometimes weighed upon
her.
Vronsky, meanwhile, in spite of the complete realization of what he had
so long desired, was not perfectly happy. He soon felt that the realization of
his desires gave him no more than a grain of sand out of the mountain of
happiness he had expected. It showed him the mistake men make in
picturing to themselves happiness as the realization of their desires. For a
time after joining his life to hers, and putting on civilian dress, he had felt
all the delight of freedom in general of which he had known nothing before,
and of freedom in his love,—and he was content, but not for long. He was
soon aware that there was springing up in his heart a desire for desires—
ennui. Without conscious intention he began to clutch at every passing
caprice, taking it for a desire and an object. Sixteen hours of the day must
be occupied in some way, since they were living abroad in complete
freedom, outside the conditions of social life which filled up time in
