Anna Karenina by graf Leo Tolstoy
Chapter 90
1272 words | Chapter 90
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.
Reading Tips
Use arrow keys to navigate
Press 'N' for next chapter
Press 'P' for previous chapter