484 485
could not apply to his mother for money. Her last letter, which he had
received the day before, had particularly exasperated him by the hints
in it that she was quite ready to help him to succeed in the world and
in the army, but not to lead a life which was a scandal to all good society.
His mother’s attempt to buy him stung him to the quick and made him
feel colder than ever to her. But he could not draw back from the
generous word when it was once uttered, even though he felt now,
vaguely foreseeing certain eventualities in his intrigue with Madame
Karenina, that this generous word had been spoken thoughtlessly, and
that even though he were not married he might need all the hundred
thousand of income. But it was impossible to draw back. He had only
to recall his brother’s wife, to remember how that sweet, delightful
Varya sought, at every convenient opportunity, to remind him that she
remembered his generosity and appreciated it, to grasp the impossibil-
ity of taking back his gift. It was as impossible as beating a woman,
stealing, or lying. One thing only could and ought to be done, and
Vronsky determined upon it without an instant’s hesitation: to borrow
money from a money-lender, ten thousand roubles, a proceeding which
presented no difficulty, to cut down his expenses generally, and to sell
his race horses. Resolving on this, he promptly wrote a note to Rolandak,
who had more than once sent to him with offers to buy horses from
him. Then he sent for the Englishman and the money-lender, and
divided what money he had according to the accounts he intended to
pay. Having finished this business, he wrote a cold and cutting answer
to his mother. Then he took out of his notebook three notes of Anna’s,
read them again, burned them, and remembering their conversation on
the previous day, he sank into meditation.
Chapter 20.
Vronsky’s life was particularly happy in that he had a code of prin-
ciples, which defined with unfailing certitude what he ought and what
he ought not to do. This code of principles covered only a very small
circle of contingencies, but then the principles were never doubtful,
and Vronsky, as he never went outside that circle, had never had a
moment’s hesitation about doing what he ought to do. These prin-
ciples laid down as invariable rules: that one must pay a cardsharper,
but need not pay a tailor; that one must never tell a lie to a man, but
one may to a woman; that one must never cheat anyone, but one may
a husband; that one must never pardon an insult, but one may give one
and so on. These principles were possibly not reasonable and not
good, but they were of unfailing certainty, and so long as he adhered to
them, Vronsky felt that his heart was at peace and he could hold his
head up. Only quite lately in regard to his relations with Anna, Vronsky
had begun to feel that his code of principles did not fully cover all
possible contingencies, and to foresee in the future difficulties and
perplexities for which he could find no guiding clue.
His present relation to Anna and to her husband was to his mind
clear and simple. It was clearly and precisely defined in the code of
principles by which he was guided.
she was an honorable woman who had bestowed her love upon