Anna Karenina (Dole)/Part Three/Chapter 20
CHAPTER XX
Vronsky's life had been especially happy, because he had a special code of rules, which infallibly determined all he ought to do and ought not to do.
This code embraced a very small circle of duties, but the rules allowed no manner of question, and as Vronsky never had occasion to go outside of this circle, he had never been obliged to hesitate about what he had to do. These rules prescribed unfailingly that it was necessary to pay gambling debts, but not his tailor's bills; that it was not permissible to tell lies, except to women; that it was not right to deceive any one except a husband; that insults could be committed, but never pardoned.
All these precepts might be wrong and illogical, but they were indubitable; and, in fulfilling them, Vronsky felt that he was calm, and had the right to hold his head high. Only very recently, however, and during the progress of his intimacy with Anna, Vronsky began to perceive that his code did not fully determine all conditions, and the future promised to present difficulties and doubts through the labyrinth of which he could not find the guiding thread.
Hitherto his relations with Anna and her husband had been, on his part, simple and clear; they were in harmony with the code that guided him.
She was a perfect lady, and she had given him her love; he loved her, and therefore she had a right to his respect, even more than if she had been his legal wife. He would have cut off his hand sooner than permit himself a word or an allusion that might wound her, or that would seem to fail in that respect on which, as a woman, she ought to count.
His relations with society were also clear. All might know or suspect his relations with her, but no one should dare to speak of it. At the first hint, he was prepared to cause the speaker to hold his peace, and to respect the non-existent honor of the woman whom he loved.
Still more clear were his relations to the husband: from the first moment when Anna gave him her love he considered his right and his only imprescriptible. The husband was merely a superfluous and meddlesome person. Without doubt, he was in a pitiable position; but what could be done about it? The only right that was left him was to demand satisfaction with arms in their hands, and for this Vronsky was wholly willing.
In the last few days, however, new complications had arisen in their relationship, and Vronsky was alarmed at his uncertainty. Only the evening before, Anna had confessed that she was pregnant; and he felt that this news and what she expected from him demanded something that was not defined by the code of rules by which he ruled his life. Indeed, he was taken unawares, and at the first moment, when she told him her situation, his heart bade him take her from her husband. He said this, but now on reflection he saw clearly that it would be better not to do so; but at the same time he was alarmed and perplexed.
"If I urge her to leave her husband, it would mean—unite her life with mine. Am I ready for that? How can I elope with her when I have no money? Let us admit that I could manage that. ... But how can I take her away while I am connected with the service? If I should decide upon this, I should have to get money, and throw up my commission."
And he fell into thought. The question of resigning, or not, brought him face to face with another interest of his life known only to himself, though it formed the principal spur to his action.
Ambition had been the dream of his childhood and youth, a dream which he did not confess even to himself, but which was nevertheless a passion so strong that now it fought with his love. His first advances in society, and in his military career, had been brilliant, but two years before he had made a serious blunder. Wishing to show his independence, and to cause a sensation, he refused a promotion offered him, with the hope that his refusal would put a still higher value upon him. But it seemed that he was too confident, and since then he had been neglected. Finding himself reduced nolens volens to the position of an independent man, he accepted it, behaving with perfect propriety and wisdom, as if he had nothing to complain of, and counted himself slighted by no one, but asked only to be left in peace to amuse himself as he pleased.
In reality, as the year went on, and even before he went to Moscow, this pleasure had begun to pall on him. He felt that this independent position of a man capable of doing anything, but caring to do nothing, was beginning to grow tame, that many people were beginning to think that he was incapable of doing anything, instead of being a good, honorable young fellow.
His relations with Madame Karenin, by making such a sensation and attracting attention to him, for a time calmed the gnawings of the worm of ambition; but lately this worm had begun to gnaw with renewed energy. Serpukhovskoï—the friend of his childhood, belonging to his own circle, a chum of his in the School of Pages, who had graduated with him, who had been his rival in the class-room and in gymnasium, in his pranks and in his dreams of ambition—had just returned from Central Asia, where he had been promoted two tchins and won honors rarely given to such a young general.
He had only just come to Petersburg, and people were talking about him as a new rising star of the first magnitude.
Just Vronsky's age, and his intimate friend, he was a general, and was expecting an appointment which would give him great influence in the affairs of the country; while Vronsky, though he was independent and brilliant, and loved by a lovely woman, was only a rotmistr, or cavalry captain, whom they allowed to remain as independent as he pleased.
"Of course," he said to himself, "I am not envious of Serpukhovskoï and could not be; but his promotion proves that a man like me needs only to bide his time in order to make a rapid rise in his profession. Three years ago he was in the same position as I am now. If I left the service, I should burn my ships. If I stay in the service, I lose nothing; she herself told me that she did not want to change her position. And I, who am sure of her love, cannot be envious of Serpukhovskoï."
And, slowly twisting his mustache, he arose from the table, and began to walk up and down the room. His eyes shone with extraordinary brilliancy; and he was conscious of that calm, even, and joyous state of mind which he always felt after he had cleared up any situation. All was now clear and orderly as ever. He shaved, took a cold-water bath, dressed, and prepared to go out.