ANNA KARENINA (Collector's Edition) - Leo Tolstoy

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for his young comrade Venevsky, who in Vronsky’s presence had lost that sum to a card-sharper. Vronsky had wished to pay at the time — he had the money with him — but Venevsky and Yashvin insisted that they would pay, and would not permit Vronsky, who had not even been playing, to do so. This was all very fine, but Vronsky knew that in this dirty business, his share in which was simply a verbal guarantee for Venevsky, he must have the 2500 roubles ready to throw to the sharper, and then have no more to do with him. So that for the first part of his debt he must have 4000 roubles ready. Eight thousand roubles under the second heading were less important: they were owing chiefly for the use of the racecourse stables, to the oats and hay-dealer, to the Englishman, to the saddler and others. In respect of these debts it was necessary to pay out 2000 roubles, in order to be quite secure.

      The remaining debts were owing to shops, hotels, and to his tailor, and there was no need to trouble about them. So he needed 6000 roubles for immediate use, and had only 1800 roubles ready money. To a man with an income of 100,000 roubles a year, as everybody said Vronsky had, it would seem that such debts could not cause any difficulty, but the fact was that he was far from having the 100,000 roubles. His father’s immense fortune, which alone brought in 200,000 a year, had not been divided between the brothers. When the elder brother, having a number of debts, married the Princess Varya Chirkova, the daughter of a penniless Decembrist [one of those officers and others who in December 1825 conspired to secure a Constitution for Russia on the accession of Nicholas I, some of whom were executed, others exiled to Siberia and their estates confiscated], Alexis gave up to his brother the income from his father’s fortune, stipulating for only 25,000 roubles a year for himself. At that time Alexis told his brother that this would suffice for him till he married, which in all probability he never would do. And his brother, commanding one of the most expensive regiments, and newly married, could not refuse this gift. Their mother, who had her own private fortune, allowed Alexis about 20,000 roubles a year in addition to the 25,000 agreed upon, and Alexis spent it all. Latterly his mother, having quarrelled with him about his connection with Anna and his departure from Moscow, had stopped his allowance. Consequently Vronsky, who was in the habit of spending 45,000 roubles a year, having this year received only 25,000, found himself in difficulties. He could not ask his mother to help him out of them. Her last letter in particular had irritated him, for it contained hints that she was willing to help him to gain success in Society and in the service, but not to help him live in a manner that scandalized all good Society. His mother’s wish to bribe him offended him to the bottom of his soul and increased his coldness toward her. Yet he could not go back on his generous promise, although, dimly foreseeing some eventualities of his connection with Anna, he felt that it had been too lightly given and that, even though unmarried, he might need the whole hundred thousand a year. But it was impossible to go back on it. He had only to remember his brother’s wife and how that dear, excellent Varya at every opportunity showed him that she remembered his generosity and appreciated it, to realize the impossibility of withdrawing what he had given. It was as impossible as to beat a woman, to steal, or to tell a lie. There was only one possible and necessary way out of it, on which Vronsky decided without a moment’s hesitation: to borrow ten thousand roubles from a money-lender, which he could easily do, to cut down his expenses, and to sell his racehorses. Having decided on this, he at once wrote a note to Rolandaki, who had more than once offered to buy his horses. Then he sent for the money-lender and the Englishman, and allotted what money he had among the different bills. Having finished this business he wrote a cold and abrupt reply to his mother. Then taking from his pocket-book three notes from Anna he re-read them, burnt them, and recalling a conversation he had had with her the evening before, fell into a reverie.

      Chapter 20

      VRONSKY was particularly fortunate in that he had a code of rules which clearly defined what should and should not be done. This code covered a very small circle of conditions, but it was unquestionable, and Vronsky, never going beyond that circle, never for a moment hesitated to do what had to be done. The code categorically determined that though the card-sharper must be paid, the tailor need not be; that one may not lie to a man, but might to a woman; that one must not deceive anyone, except a husband; that one must not forgive an insult but may insult others, and so on. These rules might be irrational and bad but they were absolute, and in complying with them Vronsky felt at ease and could carry his head high. Only quite lately, in reference to his relations to Anna, had he begun to feel that his code did not quite meet all circumstances, and that the future presented doubts and difficulties for which he had no guiding principle.

      His present relations to her and her husband were clear and simple to him. They were very clearly and exactly defined in the code of rules by which he was guided.

      She was a respectable woman who had given him her love, and he loved her; therefore she was for him a woman worthy of as much or even more respect than a legitimate wife. He would have let his hand be cut off before he would have allowed himself by word or hint to insult her, or fail to show her all the respect that a woman can possibly desire.

      His relations toward Society were also clear. Every one might know or suspect, but no one must dare to speak about the matter, or he was prepared to silence the speaker and make him respect the non-existent honour of the woman he loved.

      His relations to her husband were simplest of all. From the moment that Anna gave him her love he considered his own right to her indefeasible. Her husband was only a superfluous person and a hindrance. No doubt he was in a pitiable position, but what was to be done? The only right the husband had was, weapon in hand, to demand satisfaction, and that Vronsky from the first was prepared to give him.

      But latterly new inner relations had sprung up between himself and her, which frightened him by their indefiniteness. Only yesterday she had told him that she was pregnant, and he felt that this news and what she expected of him called for something that was not fully defined by his code of rules. He was taken by surprise, and at the moment when she told him of her condition his heart had suggested his proposal to her to leave her husband. He had made this proposal, but now, thinking it over, he saw clearly that it would be better to avoid that plan, and yet, while he told himself so, he feared that this might be wrong.

      ‘When I told her to leave her husband, that meant that she should unite herself with me. Am I ready for that? How can I take her away now that I have no money? No doubt I could arrange that … but how could I go away with her while I am in the army? Having proposed it, I must be ready to carry it out — that is to say I must find the money and leave the army.’

      He pondered. The question of whether to leave or not to leave the army led him to another private matter — almost the chief, though the secret, interest of his life.

      Ambition was the old motive of his childhood and youth, one which he did not acknowledge even to himself, but which was so strong a passion that it now struggled against his love. His first steps in Society and in the service had been successful, but two years ago he had made a bad blunder. Wishing to show his independence and to get promotion, he had refused a post that was offered him, hoping that this refusal would enhance his value, but it turned out that he had been too bold and he was passed over. Having then perforce to assume the rôle of an independent character, he played it very adroitly and cleverly, as though he had no grudge against anyone, did not feel himself at all offended, and only wished to be left in peace to enjoy himself. In reality he had begun to feel dissatisfied about the time that he went to Moscow the year before.

      He felt that the rôle of the independent man, who could have anything but wanted nothing, was beginning to pall, and that many people were beginning to think he could never do anything more than be an honest, good-natured fellow. His intrigue with Anna Karenina, which had caused such a sensation and attracted so much notice in Society, by investing him with fresh glamour had for a while quieted the worm of ambition that gnawed him, but a week ago that worm had reawakened with fresh vigour.

      A playmate of his childhood, and his fellow-pupil at the Cadet Corps, Serpukhovskoy, who belonged to the same social circle, and who had finished the same year as himself and had been his rival in the classroom, at gymnastics, in mischief and in ambitious dreams, had

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