`You've said nothing, of course, and I ask nothing,' he was saying;`but you know that friendship is not what I want: that there's only one happiness in life for me - that word you dislike so... yes, love!...'
`Love...' she repeated slowly, in an inner voice, and suddenly, at the very instant she unhooked the lace, she added, `I don't like the word precisely because it means too much to me, far more than you can understand,'
and she glanced into his face. `Good-by.'
She gave him her hand, and with her rapid, springy step she passed by the porter and vanished into the carriage.
Her glance, the touch of her hand, had seared him. He kissed the palm of his hand where she had touched it, and went home, happy in the realization that he had got nearer to the attainment of his aims that evening than during the two last months.
[Next Chapter] [Table of Contents]TOLSTOY: Anna Karenina Part 2, Chapter 08[Previous Chapter] [Table of Contents] Chapter 8 Alexei Alexandrovich had seen nothing striking or improper in the fact that his wife was sitting with Vronsky at a table apart, in eager conversation with him about something. But he noticed that to the rest of the party this appeared as something striking and improper, and for that reason it seemed to him, too, to be improper. He made up his mind that he must speak of it to his wife.
On reaching home Alexei Alexandrovich went to his study, as he usually did, seated himself in his low chair, opened a book on the Papacy at the place he had marked by inserting the paper knife, read till one o'clock, just as he usually did. But from time to time he would rub his high forehead and shake his head, as though to drive away something. At his usual time he got up and made his toilet for the night. Anna Arkadyevna had not yet come in. With a book under his arm he went upstairs. But this evening, instead of his usual thoughts and meditations upon official details, his thoughts were absorbed by his wife and something disagreeable connected with her. Contrary to his usual habit, he did not get into bed, but fell to walking up and down the rooms with his hands clasped behind his back.
He could not go to bed, feeling that it was absolutely needful for him first to think thoroughly over the situation that had just arisen.
When Alexei Alexandrovich had made up his mind that he must have a talk with his wife, it had seemed a very easy and ****** matter. But now, when he began to think over the question that had just presented itself, it seemed to him very complicated and difficult.
Alexei Alexandrovich was not jealous. Jealousy, according to his notions, was an insult to one's wife, and one ought to have confidence in one's wife. Why one ought to have that confidence - that is to say, a complete conviction that his young wife would always love him - he did not ask himself. But he had never experienced such a lack of confidence, because he had confidence in her, and told himself that he ought to have it. Now, though his conviction that jealousy was a shameful feeling, and that one ought to feel confidence, had not broken down, he still felt that he was standing face to face with something illogical and fatuous, and did not know what ought to be done. Alexei Alexandrovich was standing face to face with life, with the possibility of his wife's loving someone other than himself, and this seemed to him very fatuous and incomprehensible, because it was of the very stuff of life. All his life Alexei Alexandrovich had lived and worked in official spheres, having to do merely with the reflections of life. And every time he had stumbled against life itself he had shrunk away from it. Now he experienced a feeling akin to that of a man who, while calmly crossing a precipice by a bridge, should suddenly discover that the bridge is broken, and that there is a chasm below. That chasm was life itself - the bridge, that artificial life in which Alexei Alexandrovich had lived. For the first time the question presented itself to him of the possibility of his wife's loving someone else, and he was horrified at it.
He did not undress, but walked up and down with his regular tread over the resounding parquet of the dining room, where one lamp was burning;over the carpet of the dark drawing room, in which the light was reflected merely on the big new portrait of himself hanging over the sofa; and across her boudoir, where two candles burned, lighting up the portraits of her parents and feminine friends, and the pretty knickknacks of her writing table, every one of which he knew so well. He walked across her boudoir to the bedroom door and turned back again.
At each turn in his walk, especially on the parquet of the well-lit dining room, he halted and said to himself, `Yes, this I must decide and put a stop to; I must express my view of it and my decision.' And he turned back again. `But just what shall I express? And what decision?' he would say to himself in the drawing room - and found no answer. `But, after all,'
he asked himself before turning into the boudoir,' what has occurred? Nothing.