Anna Karenina (Dole)/Part Three/Chapter 21
CHAPTER XXI
"I was coming for you," said Petritsky, entering the room. "Your cleaning up took a long time to-day, didn't it? Are you through?"
"All through," said Vronsky, smiling only with his eyes, and continuing to twist the ends of his mustache deliberately, as if, after this work of regulation were accomplished, any rash and quick, motion might destroy it.
"You always come out of this operation as from a bath," said Petritsky, "I come from Gritska's,"—so they called their regimental commander,—"they are waiting for you."
Vronsky looked at his comrade without replying; his thoughts were elsewhere.
"Ah! then that music is at his house?" he remarked, hearing the well-known sounds of waltzes and polkas, played by a military band. "What is the celebration?"
"Serpukhovskoï has come."
"Ah!" said Vronsky, "I did not know it."
The smile in his eyes was brighter than ever.
Having once decided for himself that he was happy in his love, he had elected to sacrifice his ambition to his love. Having at least taken on himself to play this part, he could feel neither envy at Serpukhovskoï, nor vexation because he, returning to the regiment, had not come first to see him. Serpukhovskoï was a good friend of his, and Vronsky was glad for him.
"Ah! I am very glad."
The regimental commander, Demin, lived in a large seignorial mansion. All the company had assembled on the lower front balcony. What first struck Vronsky's eyes as he reached the door were the singers of the regiment, in summer uniform, grouped around a keg of vodka, and the healthy, jovial face of the regimental commander as he stood surrounded by his officers. He had come out on the front step of the balcony, and was screaming louder than the band, which was playing one of Offenbach's quadrilles. He was giving some orders and gesticulating to a group of soldiers on one side. A group of soldiers, the vakhmistr, or sergeant, and a few non-commissioned officers, reached the balcony at the same instant with Vronsky. The regimental commander, who had been to the table, returned with a glass of champagne to the front steps, and proposed the toast,—
"To the health of our old comrade, the brave general, Prince Serpukhovskoï. Hurrah!"
Behind the regimental commander came Serpukhovskoï, smiling, with a glass in his hand.
"You are always young, Bondarenko," said he to the sergeant, a ruddy-cheeked soldier, who stood directly in front of him.
Vronsky had not seen Serpukhovskoï for three years. He had grown older, and wore whiskers, but he was the same well-built man, striking not so much for his good looks as for the nobility and gentleness of his face and his whole bearing. The only change that Vronsky noted in him was the slight but constant radiance which can generally be seen in the faces of people who have succeeded and made everybody else believe in their success. Vronsky had seen it in other people, and now he detected it in Serpukhovskoï.
As he descended the steps he caught sight of Vronsky, and a smile of joy irradiated his face. He nodded to him, lifting his wine-cup as a greeting, and at the same time to signify that first he must drink with the sergeant, who, standing perfectly straight, had puckered his lips for the kiss.
"Well, here he is!" cried the regimental commander; "but Yashvin was telling me that you were in one of your bad humors."
Serpukhovskoï, having kissed the young sergeant's moist, fresh lips, wiped his mouth with his handkerchief, and came to Vronsky.
"Well, how glad I am!" he said, shaking hands, and drawing him on one side.
"Bring him along," cried the regimental commander to Yashvin, pointing to Vronsky, and descending to join the soldiers.
"Why were n't you at the races yesterday? I expected to see you," said Vronsky to Serpukhovskoï, studying his face.
"I did come, but too late. Excuse me," he said; and, turning to his aide, "Please have this distributed with my thanks; only have it get to the men."
And he hurriedly took out of his pocket-book three hundred-ruble notes, and the color came into his face.
"Vronsky, will you have something to eat or drink?" asked Yashvin. "Hey! bring something to the count here. There, now, drink this."
The feasting at the regimental commander's lasted a long time. They drank a great deal. They toasted Serpukhovskoï, and carried him on their shoulders. They cheered also the regimental commander. Then the regimental commander and Petritsky danced a Russian dance, while the regimental singers made the music; and when he was tired, he sat down on a bench in the court, and tried to prove to Yashvin Russia's superiority over Prussia, especially in cavalry charges; and the gayety calmed down for a moment. Serpukhovskoï went into the house to wash his hands, and found Vronsky in the toilet-room. Vronsky was splashing the water. He had taken off his kitel, and was sousing his head and his handsome neck under the tap of the basin, and rubbing them with his hands. When he had finished his ablutions, he sat down by Serpukhovskoï. They sat together, on a divanchik, and a conversation very interesting to both parties arose between them.
"I have learned all about you through my wife," said Serpukhovskoï. "I am glad that you see her so often."
"She is a friend of Varia's, and they are the only women in Petersburg that I care to see," said Vronsky, with a smile. He smiled because he foresaw on what subject the conversation would turn, and it was pleasing to him.
"The only ones?" repeated SerpukhovskoÏ, also smiling.
"Yes; and I, too, know all about you, but not through your wife only," said Vronsky, cutting the allusion short by the suddenly stern expression of his face; "and I am very glad at your success, but not the least surprised. I expected even more."
Serpukhovskoï smiled again. This flattering opinion of him pleased him, and he saw no reason to hide it.
"I, on the contrary, I confess frankly, expected less. But I am glad, very glad. I am ambitious; it is my weakness, and I confess it."
"Perhaps you would n't confess it if you were n't successful," suggested Vronsky.
"I don't think so," replied Serpukhovskoï, smiling again. "I will not say that life would not be worth living without it, but it would be tiresome. Of course I may be mistaken, but it seems to me that I have some of the qualifications necessary to the sphere of activity which I have chosen, and that in my hands power of any sort soever would be better placed than in the hands of many whom I know," said Serpukhovskoï, with the radiant expression of success; "and therefore, the nearer I am to this, the more contented I feel."
"Perhaps this is true for you, but not for everybody. I used to think so, and yet I live, and no longer find that ambition is the only aim of existence."
"Here we have it! Here we have it!" cried Serpukhovskoï, laughing. "I began by saying that I heard about you, about your refusal .... of course I approved of you. There is a way for everything; and I think that your action itself was well, but you did not: do it in the right way."
"What is done, is done; and you know I never go back on what I have done. Besides, I am very well fixed."
"Very well—for a time. But you will not be contented so forever. I do not refer to your brother. He is a very good fellow—just like this host of ours. Hark! hear that?" he added, hearing the shouts and hurrahs. "He may be happy, but this will not satisfy you."
"I don't say that I am satisfied."
"Well, this is not the only thing. Such men as you are necessary!"
"To whom?"
"To whom? to society; to Russia. Russia needs men, she needs a party; otherwise all is going, and will go, to the dogs."
"What do you mean?—Bertenef's party against the Russian communists?"
"No," said Serpukhovskoï, with a grimace of vexation that he should be accused of any such nonsense. "Tout ça est une blague!—All that is fudge! This always has been, and always will be. There aren't any communists. But intriguing people must needs invent some malignant dangerous party. It's an old joke. No, a powerful party is needed, of independent men, like you and me."
"But why,"—Vronsky named several influential men,—"but why are n't they among the independents?"
"Simply because they had not, through birth, an independent position, or a name, and have not lived near the sun, as we have. They can be bought by money or flattery. And to maintain themselves, they must fix on a certain course, and follow it, though they do not attach any importance to it, and even though it may be bad. They have only one object in view—the means of securing a home at the expense of the crown and certain salaries. Cela n'est pas plus fin que ça,[1] when you look at their cards. Maybe I am worse or more foolish than they, though I don't see why I should be. But I have, and you have, the one inestimable advantage, that it is harder to buy us. And such men are more than ever necessary now."
Vronsky listened attentively, not only because of the meaning of his words, but because of their connection with the case of Serpukhovskoï himself, who was about to engage in the struggle with power, and was entering into that official world, with its sympathies and antipathies, while he was occupied only with the interests of his squadron. Vronsky perceived how strong Serpukhovskoï might be, with his unfailing aptitude for invention, his quickness of comprehension, his intellect, and fluent speech, so rarely met with in the circle in which he lived. And, though his conscience reproached him, he felt a twinge of envy.
"All that I need for this is the one essential thing," said he,—"the desire for power. I had it, but it is gone."
"Excuse me; I don't believe you," said Serpukhovskoï, smiling.
"No, it is true, true—now—to be frank with you," persisted Vronsky.
"Yes, true now,—that is another affair; this now will not last forever."
"Maybe."
"You say maybe; and I tell you certainly not," continued Serpukhovskoï, as if he divined his thought "And this is why I wanted to see you. You acted as you felt was necessary. I understand that; but it is not necessary for you to stick to it.[2] All I ask of you is carte blanche for the future. I am not your patron .... and yet why should I not take you under my protection? Have you not often done as much for me? I hope that our friendship stands above that. There!" said he, smiling at him tenderly, like a woman. "Give me carte blanche. Come out of your regiment, and I will help you along so that it won't be known."
"But understand that I want nothing," said Vronsky, "except that all should be as it has been."
Serpukhovskoï arose, and stood facing him.
"You say that all must be as it has been. I understand what you mean; but listen to me. We are of the same age; maybe you have known more women than I." His smile and his gesture told Vronsky to have no fear that he would not touch gently and delicately on the tender spot. "But I am married; and, believe me, as some one or other wrote, he who knows only his wife, and loves her, understands all women better than if he had known a thousand."
"We're coming directly," cried Vronsky to an officer who looked into the room and said he was sent by the regimental commander.
Vronsky now felt curious to hear and to know what Serpukhovskoï would say to him.
"And this is my idea: Women are the principal stumbling-block in the way of a man's activity. It is hard to love a woman, and to do anything else. There is only one way to love with comfort, and without hindrance; and that is, to marry. And how can I explain to you what I mean," continued Serpukhovskoï, who was fond of metaphors,—"wait, wait!.... yes! how can you carry a burden and do anything with your hands until the burden is tied on your back? And so it is with marriage. And I found this out when I married. My hands suddenly became free. But to carry this fardeau without marriage, your hands will be so full that you can't do anything. Look at Mazankof, Krupof. They ruined their careers through women."
"But what women!" said Vronsky, remembering the Frenchwoman and the actress for whom these two men had formed attachments.
"The higher the woman is in the social scale, the greater the difficulty. It is just the same as—not to carry your fardeau in your hands, but to tear it from some other man."
"You have never loved," murmured Vronsky, looking straight ahead, and thinking of Anna.
"Perhaps; but you think of what I have told you. And one thing more: women are all more material than men. We make something immense out of love, but they are all terre-à-terre—of the earth, earthy."
"Will be there immediately!" he said, addressing the lackey who was coming into the room. But the lackey was not a messenger for him, as he supposed. The lackey brought Vronsky a note.
"A man brought this from the Princess Tverskaya."
Vronsky hastily read the note, and grew red in the face.
"I have a headache. I am going home," said he to Serpukhovskoï.
"Well, then, proshchaï! farewell; will you give me carte blanche?"
"We will talk about it by and by, I will call on you in Petersburg."