Anna Karenina

ever before had a day been passed in quarrel. Today was the first
time. And this was not a quarrel. It was the open acknowledgment of
complete coldness. Was it possible to glance at her as he had glanced
when he came into the room for the guarantee?—to look at her, see her
heart was breaking with despair, and go out without a word with that
face of callous composure? He was not merely cold to her, he hated her
because he loved another woman—that was clear.

And remembering all the cruel words he had said, Anna supplied, too,
the words that he had unmistakably wished to say and could have said to
her, and she grew more and more exasperated.

“I won’t prevent you,” he might say. “You can go where you like. You
were unwilling to be divorced from your husband, no doubt so that you
might go back to him. Go back to him. If you want money, I’ll give it
to you. How many roubles do you want?”

All the most cruel words that a brutal man could say, he said to her in
her imagination, and she could not forgive him for them, as though he
had actually said them.

“But didn’t he only yesterday swear he loved me, he, a truthful and
sincere man? Haven’t I despaired for nothing many times already?” she
said to herself afterwards.

All that day, except for the visit to Wilson’s, which occupied two
hours, Anna spent in doubts whether everything were over or whether
there were still hope of reconciliation, whether she should go away at
once or see him once more. She was expecting him the whole day, and in
the evening, as she went to her own room, leaving a message for him
that her head ached, she said to herself, “If he comes in spite of what
the maid says, it means that he loves me still. If not, it means that
all is over, and then I will decide what I’m to do!...”

In the evening she heard the rumbling of his carriage stop at the
entrance, his ring, his steps and his conversation with the servant; he
believed what was told him, did not care to find out more, and went to
his own room. So then everything was over.

And death rose clearly and vividly before her mind as the sole means of
bringing back love for her in his heart, of punishing him and of
gaining the victory in that strife which the evil spirit in possession
of her heart was waging with him.

Now nothing mattered: going or not going to Vozdvizhenskoe, getting or
not getting a divorce from her husband—all that did not matter. The one
thing that mattered was punishing him. When she poured herself out her
usual dose of opium, and thought that she had only to drink off the
whole bottle to die, it seemed to her so simple and easy, that she
began musing with enjoyment on how he would suffer, and repent and love
her memory when it would be too late. She lay in bed with open eyes, by
the light of a single burned-down candle, gazing at the carved cornice
of the ceiling and at the shadow of the screen that covered part of it,
while she vividly pictured to herself how he would feel when she would
be no more, when she would be only a memory to him. “How could I say
such cruel things to her?” he would say. “How could I go out of the
room without saying anything to her? But now she is no more. She has
gone away from us forever. She is....” Suddenly the shadow of the
screen wavered, pounced on the whole cornice, the whole ceiling; other
shadows from the other side swooped to meet it, for an instant the
shadows flitted back, but then with fresh swiftness they darted
forward, wavered, commingled, and all was darkness. “Death!” she
thought. And such horror came upon her that for a long while she could
not realize where she was, and for a long while her trembling hands
could not find the matches and light another candle, instead of the one
that had burned down and gone out. “No, anything—only to live! Why, I
love him! Why, he loves me! This has been before and will pass,” she
said, feeling that tears of joy at the return to life were trickling
down her cheeks. And to escape from her panic she went hurriedly to his
room.

He was asleep there, and sleeping soundly. She went up to him, and
holding the light above his face, she gazed a long while at him. Now
when he was asleep, she loved him so that at the sight of him she could
not keep back tears of tenderness. But she knew that if he waked up he
would look at her with cold eyes, convinced that he was right, and that
before telling him of her love, she would have to prove to him that he
had been wrong in his treatment of her. Without waking him, she went
back, and after a second dose of opium she fell towards morning into a
heavy, incomplete sleep, during which she never quite lost
consciousness.

In the morning she was waked by a horrible nightmare, which had
recurred several times in her dreams, even before her connection with
Vronsky. A little old man with unkempt beard was doing something bent
down over some iron, muttering meaningless French words, and she, as
she always did in this nightmare (it was what made the horror of it),
felt that this peasant was taking no notice of her, but was doing
something horrible with the iron—over her. And she waked up in a cold
sweat.

When she got up, the previous day came back to her as though veiled in
mist.

“There was a quarrel. Just what has happened several times. I said I
had a headache, and he did not come in to see me. Tomorrow we’re going
away; I must see him and get ready for the journey,” she said to
herself. And learning that he was in his study, she went down to him.
As she passed through the drawing-room she heard a carriage stop at the
entrance, and looking out of the window she saw the carriage, from
which a young girl in a lilac hat was leaning out giving some direction
to the footman ringing the bell. After a parley in the hall, someone
came upstairs, and Vronsky’s steps could be heard passing the
drawing-room. He went rapidly downstairs. Anna went again to the
window. She saw him come out onto the steps without his hat and go up
to the carriage. The young girl in the lilac hat handed him a parcel.
Vronsky, smiling, said something to her. The carriage drove away, he
ran rapidly upstairs again.

The mists that had shrouded everything in her soul parted suddenly. The
feelings of yesterday pierced the sick heart with a fresh pang. She
could not understand now how she could have lowered herself by spending
a whole day with him in his house. She went into his room to announce
her determination.

“That was Madame Sorokina and her daughter. They came and brought me
the money and the deeds from maman. I couldn’t get them yesterday. How
is your head, better?” he said quietly, not wishing to see and to
understand the gloomy and solemn expression of her face.

She looked silently, intently at him, standing in the middle of the
room. He glanced at her, frowned for a moment, and went on reading a
letter. She turned, and went deliberately out of the room. He still
might have turned her back, but she had reached the door, he was still
silent, and the only sound audible was the rustling of the note paper
as he turned it.

“Oh, by the way,” he said at the very moment she was in the doorway,
“we’re going tomorrow for certain, aren’t we?”

“You, but not I,” she said, turning round to him.

“Anna, we can’t go on like this....”

“You, but not I,” she repeated.

“This is getting unbearable!”

“You ... you will be sorry for this,” she said, and went out.

Frightened by the desperate expression with which these words were
uttered, he jumped up and would have run after her, but on second
thoughts he sat down and scowled, setting his teeth. This vulgar—as he
thought it—threat of something vague exasperated him. “I’ve tried
everything,” he thought; “the only thing left is not to pay attention,”
and he began to get ready to drive into town, and again to his mother’s
to get her signature to the deeds.

She heard the sound of his steps about the study and the dining-room.
At the drawing-room he stood still. But he did not turn in to see her,
he merely gave an order that the horse should be given to Voytov if he
came while he was away. Then she heard the carriage brought round, the
door opened, and he came out again. But he went back into the porch
again, and someone was running upstairs. It was the valet running up
for his gloves that had been forgotten. She went to the window and saw
him take the gloves without looking, and touching the coachman on the
back he said something to him. Then without looking up at the window he
settled himself in his usual attitude in the carriage, with his legs
crossed, and drawing on his gloves he vanished round the corner.