Part Four: Chapter 18

by Leo Tolstoy

　　After the conversation with Alexey Alexandrovitch, Vronsky wentout onto the steps of the Karenins' house and stood still, withdifficulty remembering where he was, and where he ought to walkor drive. He felt disgraced, humiliated, guilty, and deprived ofall possibility of washing away his humiliation. He felt thrustout of the beaten track along which he had so proudly and lightlywalked till then. All the habits and rules of his life that hadseemed so firm, had turned out suddenly false and inapplicable.The betrayed husband, who had figured till that time as apitiful creature, an incidental and somewhat ludicrous obstacleto his happiness, had suddenly been summoned by her herself,elevated to an awe-inspiring pinnacle, and on the pinnacle thathusband had shown himself, not malignant, not false, notludicrous, but kind and straightforward and large. Vronsky couldnot but feel this, and the parts were suddenly reversed. Vronskyfelt his elevation and his own abasement, his truth and his ownfalsehood. He felt that the husband was magnanimous even in hissorrow, while he had been base and petty in his deceit. But thissense of his own humiliation before the man he had unjustlydespised made up only a small part of his misery. He feltunutterably wretched now, for his passion for Anna, which hadseemed to him of late to be growing cooler, now that he knew hehad lost her forever, was stronger than ever it had been. He hadseen all of her in her illness, had come to know her very soul,and it seemed to him that he had never loved her till then. Andnow when he had learned to know her, to love her as she should beloved, he had been humiliated before her, and had lost herforever, leaving with her nothing of himself but a shamefulmemory. Most terrible of all had been his ludicrous, shamefulposition when Alexey Alexandrovitch had pulled his hands awayfrom his humiliated face. He stood on the steps of the Karenins'house like one distraught, and did not know what to do.

　　"A sledge, sir?" asked the porter.

　　"Yes, a sledge."

　　On getting home, after three sleepless nights, Vronsky, withoutundressing, lay down fiat on the sofa, clasping his hands andlaying his head on them. His head was heavy. Images, memories,and ideas of the strangest description followed one another withextraordinary rapidity and vividness. First it was the medicinehe had poured out for the patient and spilt over the spoon, thenthe midwife's white hands, then the queer posture of AlexeyAlexandrovitch on the floor beside the bed.

　　"To sleep! To forget!" he said to himself with the sereneconfidence of a healthy man that if he is tired and sleepy, hewill go to sleep at once. And the same instant his head didbegin to feel drowsy and he began to drop off into forgetfulness.The waves of the sea of unconsciousness had begun to meet overhis head, when all at once--it was as though a violent shock ofelectricity had passed over him. He started so that he leaped upon the springs of the sofa, and leaning on his arms got in apanic onto his knees. His eyes were wide open as though he hadnever been asleep. The heaviness in his head and the wearinessin his limbs that he had felt a minute before had suddenly gone.

　　"You may trample me in the mud," he heard Alexey Alexandrovitch'swords and saw him standing before him, and saw Anna's face withits burning flush and glittering eyes, gazing with love andtenderness not at him but at Alexey Alexandrovitch; he saw hisown, as he fancied, foolish and ludicrous figure when AlexeyAlexandrovitch took his hands away from his face. He stretchedout his legs again and flung himself on the sofa in the sameposition and shut his eyes.

　　"To sleep! To forget!" he repeated to himself. But with hiseyes shut he saw more distinctly than ever Anna's face as it hadbeen on the memorable evening before the races.

　　"That is not and will not be, and she wants to wipe it out of hermemory. But I cannot live without it. How can we be reconciled?how can we be reconciled?" he said aloud, and unconsciously beganto repeat these words. This repetition checked the rising up offresh images and memories, which he felt were thronging in hisbrain. But repeating words did not check his imagination forlong. Again in extraordinarily rapid succession his best momentsrose before his mind, and then his recent humiliation. "Takeaway his hands," Anna's voice says. He takes away his hands andfeels the shamestruck and idiotic expression of his face.

　　He still lay down, trying to sleep, though he felt there was notthe smallest hope of it, and kept repeating stray words from somechain of thought, trying by this to check the rising flood offresh images. He listened, and heard in a strange, mad whisperwords repeated: "I did not appreciate it, did not make enough ofit. I did not appreciate it, did not make enough of it."

　　"What's this? Am I going out of my mind?" he said to himself."Perhaps. What makes men go out of their minds; what makes menshoot themselves?" he answered himself, and opening his eyes, hesaw with wonder an embroidered cushion beside him, worked byVarya, his brother's wife. He touched the tassel of the cushion,and tried to think of Varya, of when he had seen her last. Butto think of anything extraneous was an agonizing effort. "No, Imust sleep!" He moved the cushion up, and pressed his head intoit, but he had to make an effort to keep his eyes shut. Hejumped up and sat down. "That's all over for me," he said tohimself. "I must think what to do. What is left?" His mindrapidly ran through his life apart from his love of Anna.

　　"Ambition? Serpuhovskoy? Society? The court?" He could notcome to a pause anywhere. All of it had had meaning before, butnow there was no reality in it. He got up from the sofa, tookoff his coat, undid his belt, and uncovering his hairy chest tobreathe more freely, walked up and down the room. "This is howpeople go mad," he repeated, "and how they shoot themselves...toescape humiliation," he added slowly.

　　He went to the door and closed it, then with fixed eyes andclenched teeth he went up to the table, took a revolver, lookedround him, turned it to a loaded barrel, and sank into thought.For two minutes, his head bent forward with an expression of anintense effort of thought, he stood with the revolver in hishand, motionless, thinking.

　　"Of course," he said to himself, as though a logical, continuous,and clear chain of reasoning had brought him to an indubitableconclusion. In reality this "of course," that seemed convincingto him, was simply the result of exactly the same circle ofmemories and images through which he had passed ten times alreadyduring the last hour--memories of happiness lost forever. Therewas the same conception of the senselessness of everything tocome in life, the same consciousness of humiliation. Even thesequence of these images and emotions was the same.

　　"Of course," he repeated, when for the third time his thoughtpassed again round the same spellbound circle of memories andimages, and pulling the revolver to the left side of his chest,and clutching it vigorously with his whole hand, as it were,squeezing it in his fist, he pulled the trigger. He did not hearthe sound of the shot, but a violent blow on his chest sent himreeling. He tried to clutch at the edge of the table, droppedthe revolver, staggered, and sat down on the ground, lookingabout him in astonishment. He did not recognize his room,looking up from the ground, at the bent legs of the table, at thewastepaper basket, and the tiger-skin rug. The hurried, creakingsteps of his servant coming through the drawing room brought himto his senses. He made an effort at thought, and was aware thathe was on the floor; and seeing blood on the tiger-skin rug andon his arm, he knew he had shot himself.

　　"Idiotic! Missed!" he said, fumbling after the revolver. Therevolver was close beside him--he sought further off. Stillfeeling for it, he stretched out to the other side, and not beingstrong enough to keep his balance, fell over, streaming withblood.

　　The elegant, whiskered manservant, who used to be continuallycomplaining to his acquaintances of the delicacy of his nerves,was so panic-stricken on seeing his master lying on the floor,that he left him losing blood while he ran for assistance. Anhour later Varya, his brother's wife, had arrived, and with theassistance of three doctors, whom she had sent for in alldirections, and who all appeared at the same moment, she got thewounded man to bed, and remained to nurse him.