Part Two: Chapter 11

by Leo Tolstoy

　　That which for Vronsky had been almost a whole year the oneabsorbing desire of his life, replacing all his old desires; thatwhich for Anna had been an impossible, terrible, and even forthat reason more entrancing dream of bliss, that desire had beenfulfilled. He stood before her, pale, his lower jaw quivering,and besought her to be calm, not knowing how or why.

　　"Anna! Anna!" he said with a choking voice, "Anna, for pity'ssake!..."

　　But the louder he spoke, the lower she dropped her once proud andgay, now shame-stricken head, and she bowed down and sank fromthe sofa where she was sitting, down on the floor, at his feet;she would have fallen on the carpet if he had not held her.

　　"My God! Forgive me!" she said, sobbing, pressing his hands toher bosom.

　　She felt so sinful, so guilty, that nothing was left her but tohumiliate herself and beg forgiveness; and as now there was noone in her life but him, to him she addressed her prayer forforgiveness. Looking at him, she had a physical sense of herhumiliation, and she could say nothing more. He felt what amurderer must feel, when he sees the body he has robbed of life.That body, robbed by him of life, was their love, the first stageof their love. There was something awful and revolting in thememory of what had been bought at this fearful price of shame.Shame at their spiritual nakedness crushed her and infected him.But in spite of all the murderer's horror before the body of hisvictim, he must hack it to pieces, hide the body, must use whathe has gained by his murder.

　　And with fury, as it were with passion, the murderer falls on thebody, and drags it and hacks at it; so he covered her face andshoulders with kisses. She held his hand, and did not stir."Yes, these kisses--that is what has been bought by this shame.Yes, and one hand, which will always be mine--the hand of myaccomplice." She lifted up that hand and kissed it. He sank onhis knees and tried to see her face; but she hid it, and saidnothing. At last, as though making an effort over herself, shegot up and pushed him away. Her face was still as beautiful, butit was only the more pitiful for that.

　　"All is over," she said; "In have nothing but you. Rememberthat."

　　"I can never forget what is my whole life. For one instant ofthis happiness..."

　　"Happiness!" she said with horror and loathing and her horrorunconsciously infected him. "For pity's sake, not a word, not aword more."

　　She rose quickly and moved away from him.

　　"Not a word more," she repeated, and with a look of chilldespair, incomprehensible to him, she parted from him. She feltthat at that moment she could not put into words the sense ofshame, of rapture, and of horror at this stepping into a newlife, and she did not want to speak of it, to vulgarize thisfeeling by inappropriate words. But later too, and the next dayand the third day, she still found no words in which she couldexpress the complexity of her feelings; indeed, she could noteven find thoughts in which she could clearly think out all thatwas in her soul.

　　She said to herself: "No, just now I can't think of it, later on,when I am calmer." But this calm for thought never came; everytime the thought rose of what she had done and what would happento her, and what she ought to do, a horror came over her and shedrove those thoughts away.

　　"Later, later," she said--"when I am calmer."

　　But in dreams, when she had no control over her thoughts, herposition presented itself to her in all its hideous nakedness.Once dream haunted her almost every night. She dreamed that bothwere her husbands at once, that both were lavishing caresses onher. Alexey Alexandrovitch was weeping, kissing her hands, andsaying, "How happy we are now!" And Alexey Vronsky was theretoo, and he too was her husband. And she was marveling that ithad once seemed impossible to her, was explaining to them,laughing, that this was ever so much simpler, and that now bothof them were happy and contented. But this dream weighed on herlike a nightmare, and she awoke from it in terror.