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him, and he loved her, and therefore she was in his eyes a woman who
had a right to the same, or even more, respect than a lawful wife. He
would have had his hand chopped off before he would have allowed
himself by a word, by a hint, to humiliate her, or even to fall short of the
fullest respect a woman could look for.
His attitude to society, too, was clear. Everyone might know, might
suspect it, but no one might dare to speak of it. If any did so, he was
ready to force all who might speak to be silent and to respect the
nonexistent honor of the woman he loved.
His attitude to the husband was the clearest of all. From the
moment that Anna loved Vronsky, he had regarded his own right over
her as the one thing unassailable. Her husband was simply a superflu-
ous and tiresome person. No doubt he was in a pitiable position, but
how could that be helped? The one thing the husband had a right to
was to demand satisfaction with a weapon in his hand, and Vronsky
was prepared for this at any minute.
But of late new inner relations had arisen between him and her,
which frightened Vronsky by their indefiniteness. Only the day before
she had told him that she was with child. And he felt that this fact and
what she expected of him called for something not fully defined in that
code of principles by which he had hitherto steered his course in life.
And he had been indeed caught unawares, and at the first moment
when she spoke to him of her position, his heart had prompted him to
beg her to leave her husband. He had said that, but now thinking
things over he saw clearly that it would be better to manage to avoid
that; and at the same time, as he told himself so, he was afraid whether
it was not wrong.
“If I told her to leave her husband, that must mean uniting her life
with mine; am I prepared for that? How can I take her away now,
when I have no money? Supposing I could arrange.... But how can I
take her away while I’m in the service? If I say that I ought to be
prepared to do it, that is, I ought to have the money and to retire from
the army.”
And he grew thoughtful. The question whether to retire from the
service or not brought him to the other and perhaps the chief though
hidden interest of his life, of which none knew but he.
Ambition was the old dream of his youth and childhood, a dream
which he did not confess even to himself, though it was so strong that
now this passion was even doing battle with his love. His first steps in
the world and in the service had been successful, but two years before
he had made a great mistake. Anxious to show his independence and
to advance, he had refused a post that had been offered him, hoping
that this refusal would heighten his value; but it turned out that he
had been too bold, and he was passed over. And having, whether he
liked or not, taken up for himself the position of an independent man,
he carried it off with great tact and good sense, behaving as though he
bore no grudge against anyone, did not regard himself as injured in any
way, and cared for nothing but to be left alone since he was enjoying
himself. In reality he had ceased to enjoy himself as long ago as the
year before, when he went away to Moscow. He felt that this indepen-
dent attitude of a man who might have done anything, but cared to do
nothing was already beginning to pall, that many people were begin-
ning to fancy that he was not really capable of anything but being a
straightforward, good-natured fellow. His connection with Madame
Karenina, by creating so much sensation and attracting general atten-
tion, had given him a fresh distinction which soothed his gnawing
worm of ambition for a while, but a week before that worm had been
roused up again with fresh force. The friend of his childhood, a man of