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admitted, and he did not go down to dinner.
He felt that he could not endure the weight of universal contempt
and exasperation, which he had distinctly seen in the face of the clerk
and of Korney, and of everyone, without exception, whom he had met
during those two days. He felt that he could not turn aside from
himself the hatred of men, because that hatred did not come from his
being bad (in that case he could have tried to be better), but from his
being shamefully and repulsively unhappy. He knew that for this, for
the very fact that his heart was torn with grief, they would be merciless
to him. He felt that men would crush him as dogs strangle a torn dog
yelping with pain. He knew that his sole means of security against
people was to hide his wounds from them, and instinctively he tried to
do this for two days, but now he felt incapable of keeping up the
unequal struggle.
His despair was even intensified by the consciousness that he was
utterly alone in his sorrow. In all Petersburg there was not a human
being to whom he could express what he was feeling, who would feel
for him, not as a high official, not as a member of society, but simply as
a suffering man; indeed he had not such a one in the whole world.
Alexey Alexandrovitch grew up an orphan. There were two broth-
ers. They did not remember their father, and their mother died when
Alexey Alexandrovitch was ten years old. The property was a small
one. Their uncle, Karenin, a government official of high standing, at
one time a favorite of the late Tsar, had brought them up.
On completing his high school and university courses with medals,
Alexey Alexandrovitch had, with his uncle’s aid, immediately started
in a prominent position in the service, and from that time forward he
had devoted himself exclusively to political ambition. In the high
school and the university, and afterwards in the service, Alexey
Alexandrovitch had never formed a close friendship with anyone. His
brother had been the person nearest to his heart, but he had a post in
the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, and was always abroad, where he had
died shortly after Alexey Alexandrovitch’s marriage.
While he was governor of a province, Anna’s aunt, a wealthy pro-
vincial lady, had thrown him—middle-aged as he was, though young
for a governor—with her niece, and had succeeded in putting him in
such a position that he had either to declare himself or to leave the
town. Alexey Alexandrovitch was not long in hesitation. There were
at the time as many reasons for the step as against it, and there was no
overbalancing consideration to outweigh his invariable rule of abstain-
ing when in doubt. But Anna’s aunt had through a common acquain-
tance insinuated that he had already compromised the girl, and that he
was in honor bound to make her an offer. He made the offer, and
concentrated on his betrothed and his wife all the feeling of which he
was capable.
The attachment he felt to Anna precluded in his heart every need
of intimate relations with others. And now among all his acquaintan-
ces he had not one friend. He had plenty of so-called connections, but
no friendships. Alexey Alexandrovitch had plenty of people whom he
could invite to dinner, to whose sympathy he could appeal in any
public affair he was concerned about, whose interest he could reckon
upon for anyone he wished to help, with whom he could candidly
discuss other people’s business and affairs of state. But his relations
with these people were confined to one clearly defined channel, and
had a certain routine from which it was impossible to depart. There
was one man, a comrade of his at the university, with whom he had
made friends later, and with whom he could have spoken of a personal
sorrow; but this friend had a post in the Department of Education in a