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that’s what I felt when I was married. My hands were suddenly set
free. But to drag that fardeau about with you without marriage, your
hands will always be so full that you can do nothing. Look at Mazankov,
at Krupov. They’ve ruined their careers for the sake of women.”
“What women!” said Vronsky, recalling the Frenchwoman and the
actress with whom the two men he had mentioned were connected.
“The firmer the woman’s footing in society, the worse it is. That’s
much the same as—not merely carrying the fardeau in your arms—but
tearing it away from someone else.”
“You have never loved,” Vronsky said softly, looking straight before
him and thinking of Anna.
“Perhaps. But you remember what I’ve said to you. And another
thing, women are all more materialistic than men. We make something
immense out of love, but they are always terre-a-terre.”
“Directly, directly!” he cried to a footman who came in. But the
footman had not come to call them again, as he supposed. The foot-
man brought Vronsky a note.
“A man brought it from Princess Tverskaya.”
Vronsky opened the letter, and flushed crimson.
“My head’s begun to ache; I’m going home,” he said to
Serpuhovskoy.
“Oh, good-bye then. You give me carte blanche!”
“We’ll talk about it later on; I’ll look you up in Petersburg.”
Chapter 22.
It was six o’clock already, and so, in order to be there quickly, and at
the same time not to drive with his own horses, known to everyone,
Vronsky got into Yashvin’s hired fly, and told the driver to drive as
quickly as possible. It was a roomy, old-fashioned fly, with seats for
four. He sat in one corner, stretched his legs out on the front seat, and
sank into meditation.
A vague sense of the order into which his affairs had been brought,
a vague recollection of the friendliness and flattery of Serpuhovskoy,
who had considered him a man that was needed, and most of all, the
anticipation of the interview before him—all blended into a general,
joyous sense of life. This feeling was so strong that he could not help
smiling. He dropped his legs, crossed one leg over the other knee, and
taking it in his hand, felt the springy muscle of the calf, where it had
been grazed the day before by his fall, and leaning back he drew
several deep breaths.
“I’m happy, very happy!” he said to himself. He had often before
had this sense of physical joy in his own body, but he had never felt so
fond of himself, of his own body, as at that moment. He enjoyed the
slight ache in his strong leg, he enjoyed the muscular sensation of
movement in his chest as he breathed. The bright, cold August day,
which had made Anna feel so hopeless, seemed to him keenly stimu-