992 993
he looked with gloomy inquiry towards Darya Alexandrovna.
She made no answer, but simply gazed at him. He went on:
“One day a son may be born, my son, and he will be legally a
Karenin; he will not be the heir of my name nor of my property, and
however happy we may be in our home life and however many chil-
dren we may have, there will be no real tie between us. They will be
Karenins. You can understand the bitterness and horror of this posi-
tion! I have tried to speak of this to Anna. It irritates her. She does not
understand, and to her I cannot speak plainly of all this. Now look at
another side. I am happy, happy in her love, but I must have occupa-
tion. I have found occupation, and am proud of what I am doing and
consider it nobler than the pursuits of my former companions at court
and in the army. And most certainly I would not change the work I am
doing for theirs. I am working here, settled in my own place, and I am
happy and contented, and we need nothing more to make us happy. I
love my work here. Ce n’est pas un pis-aller, on the contrary...”
Darya Alexandrovna noticed that at this point in his explanation
he grew confused, and she did not quite understand this digression,
but she felt that having once begun to speak of matters near his heart,
of which he could not speak to Anna, he was now making a clean
breast of everything, and that the question of his pursuits in the coun-
try fell into the same category of matters near his heart, as the question
of his relations with Anna.
“Well, I will go on,” he said, collecting himself. “The great thing is
that as I work I want to have a conviction that what I am doing will not
die with me, that I shall have heirs to come after me,—and this I have
not. Conceive the position of a man who knows that his children, the
children of the woman he loves, will not be his, but will belong to
someone who hates them and cares nothing about them! It is awful!”
He paused, evidently much moved.
“Yes, indeed, I see that. But what can Anna do?” queried Darya
Alexandrovna.
“Yes, that brings me to the object of my conversation,” he said,
calming himself with an effort. “Anna can, it depends on her.... Even
to petition the Tsar for legitimization, a divorce is essential. And that
depends on Anna. Her husband agreed to a divorce—at that time
your husband had arranged it completely. And now, I know, he would
not refuse it. It is only a matter of writing to him. He said plainly at that
time that if she expressed the desire, he would not refuse. Of course,”
he said gloomily, “it is one of those Pharisaical cruelties of which only
such heartless men are capable. He knows what agony any recollec-
tion of him must give her, and knowing her, he must have a letter from
her. I can understand that it is agony to her. But the matter is of such
importance, that one must passer par-dessus toutes ces finesses de
sentiment. Il y va du bonheur et de l’existence d’Anne et de ses
enfants. I won’t speak of myself, though it’s hard for me, very hard,” he
said, with an expression as though he were threatening someone for its
being hard for him. “And so it is, princess, that I am shamelessly
clutching at you as an anchor of salvation. Help me to persuade her to
write to him and ask for a divorce.”
“Yes, of course,” Darya Alexandrovna said dreamily, as she vividly
recalled her last interview with Alexey Alexandrovitch. “Yes, of course,”
she repeated with decision, thinking of Anna.
“Use your influence with her, make her write. I don’t like—I’m
almost unable to speak about this to her.”
“Very well, I will talk to her. But how is it she does not think of it
herself?” said Darya Alexandrovna, and for some reason she suddenly
at that point recalled Anna’s strange new habit of half-closing her eyes.