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Chapter 12.
After taking leave of her guests, Anna did not sit down, but began
walking up and down the room. She had unconsciously the whole
evening done her utmost to arouse in Levin a feeling of love—as of
late she had fallen into doing with all young men— and she knew she
had attained her aim, as far as was possible in one evening, with a
married and conscientious man. She liked him indeed extremely, and,
in spite of the striking difference, from the masculine point of view,
between Vronsky and Levin, as a woman she saw something they had
in common, which had made Kitty able to love both. Yet as soon as he
was out of the room, she ceased to think of him.
One thought, and one only, pursued her in different forms, and
refused to be shaken off. “If I have so much effect on others, on this
man, who loves his home and his wife, why is it he is so cold to me?...not
cold exactly, he loves me, I know that! But something new is drawing
us apart now. Why wasn’t he here all the evening? He told Stiva to say
he could not leave Yashvin, and must watch over his play. Is Yashvin
a child? But supposing it’s true. He never tells a lie. But there’s
something else in it if it’s true. He is glad of an opportunity of showing
me that he has other duties; I know that, I submit to that. But why
prove that to me? He wants to show me that his love for me is not to
interfere with his freedom. But I need no proofs, I need love. He
ought to understand all the bitterness of this life for me here in Mos-
cow. Is this life? I am not living, but waiting for an event, which is
continually put off and put off. No answer again! And Stiva says he
cannot go to Alexey Alexandrovitch. And I can’t write again. I can do
nothing, can begin nothing, can alter nothing; I hold myself in, I wait,
inventing amusements for myself—the English family, writing, read-
ing—but it’s all nothing but a sham, it’s all the same as morphine. He
ought to feel for me,” she said, feeling tears of self-pity coming into her
eyes.
She heard Vronsky’s abrupt ring and hurriedly dried her tears—
not only dried her tears, but sat down by a lamp and opened a book,
affecting composure. She wanted to show him that she was displeased
that he had not come home as he had promised— displeased only, and
not on any account to let him see her distress, and least of all, her self-
pity. She might pity herself, but he must not pity her. She did not want
strife, she blamed him for wanting to quarrel, but unconsciously put
herself into an attitude of antagonism.
“Well, you’ve not been dull?” he said, eagerly and good-humoredly,
going up to her. “What a terrible passion it is—gambling!”
“No, I’ve not been dull; I’ve learned long ago not to be dull. Stiva
has been here and Levin.”
“Yes, they meant to come and see you. Well, how did you like
Levin?” he said, sitting down beside her.
“Very much. They have not long been gone. What was Yashvin
doing?”
“He was winning—seventeen thousand. I got him away. He had
really started home, but he went back again, and now he’s losing.”
“Then what did you stay for?” she asked, suddenly lifting her eyes
to him. The expression of her face was cold and ungracious. “You told