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Chapter 8.
Anna, in that first period of her emancipation and rapid return to
health, felt herself unpardonably happy and full of the joy of life. The
thought of her husband’s unhappiness did not poison her happiness.
On one side that memory was too awful to be thought of. On the other
side her husband’s unhappiness had given her too much happiness to
be regretted. The memory of all that had happened after her illness:
her reconciliation with her husband, its breakdown, the news of
Vronsky’s wound, his visit, the preparations for divorce, the departure
from her husband’s house, the parting from her son—all that seemed
to her like a delirious dream, from which she had waked up alone with
Vronsky abroad. The thought of the harm caused to her husband
aroused in her a feeling like repulsion, and akin to what a drowning
man might feel who has shaken off another man clinging to him. That
man did drown. It was an evil action, of course, but it was the sole
means of escape, and better not to brood over these fearful facts.
One consolatory reflection upon her conduct had occurred to her at
the first moment of the final rupture, and when now she recalled all the
past, she remembered that one reflection. “I have inevitably made
that man wretched,” she thought; “but I don’t want to profit by his
misery. I too am suffering, and shall suffer; I am losing what I prized
above everything—I am losing my good name and my son. I have
done wrong, and so I don’t want happiness, I don’t want a divorce, and
shall suffer from my shame and the separation from my child.” But,
however sincerely Anna had meant to suffer, she was not suffering.
Shame there was not. With the tact of which both had such a large
share, they had succeeded in avoiding Russian ladies abroad, and so
had never placed themselves in a false position, and everywhere they
had met people who pretended that they perfectly understood their
position, far better indeed than they did themselves. Separation from
the son she loved—even that did not cause her anguish in these early
days. The baby girl—HIS child—was so sweet, and had so won Anna’s
heart, since she was all that was left her, that Anna rarely thought of
her son.
The desire for life, waxing stronger with recovered health, was so
intense, and the conditions of life were so new and pleasant, that Anna
felt unpardonably happy. The more she got to know Vronsky, the more
she loved him. She loved him for himself, and for his love for her. Her
complete ownership of him was a continual joy to her. His presence
was always sweet to her. All the traits of his character, which she
learned to know better and better, were unutterably dear to her. His
appearance, changed by his civilian dress, was as fascinating to her as
though she were some young girl in love. In everything he said, thought,
and did, she saw something particularly noble and elevated. Her ado-
ration of him alarmed her indeed; she sought and could not find in him
anything not fine. She dared not show him her sense of her own
insignificance beside him. It seemed to her that, knowing this, he
might sooner cease to love her; and she dreaded nothing now so much
as losing his love, though she had no grounds for fearing it. But she
could not help being grateful to him for his attitude to her, and showing
that she appreciated it. He, who had in her opinion such a marked