I'm not going to offer you my protection...though, indeed, why shouldn't I protect you?-- you've protected me often enough!
I should hope our friendship rises above all that sort of thing.
Yes," he said, smiling to him as tenderly as a woman, "give me _carte blanche_, retire from the regiment, and I'll draw you upwards imperceptibly."
"But you must understand that I want nothing," said Vronsky, "except that all should be as it is."
Serpuhovskoy got up and stood facing him.
"You say that all should be as it is.
I understand what that means.
But listen: we're the same age, you've known a greater number of women perhaps than I have." Serpohovskoy's smile and gestures told Vronsky that he mustn't be afraid, that he would be tender and careful in touching the sore place. "But I'm married, and believe me, in getting to know thoroughly one's wife, if one loves her, as someone has said, one gets to know all women better than if one knew thousands of them."
"We're coming directly!" Vronsky shouted to an officer, who looked into the room and called them to the colonel.
Vronsky was longing now to hear to the end and know what Serpuhovskey would say to him.
"And here's my opinion for you.
Women are the chief stumbling block in a man's career.
It's hard to love a woman and do anything.
There's only one way of having love conveniently without its being a hindrance--that's marriage.
How, how am I to tell you what I mean?" said Serpuhovskoy, who liked similes. "Wait a minute, wait a minute!
Yes, just as you can only carry a _fardeau_ and do something with your hands, when the fardeau is tied on your back, and that's marriage.
And that's what I felt when I was married.
My hands were suddenly set free.
But to drag that _fardeau_ about with you without marriage, your hands will always be so full that you can do nothing.
Look at Mazankov, at Krupov.
They've ruined their careers for the sake of women."
"What women!" said Vronsky, recalling the Frenchwoman and the actress with whom the two men he had mentioned were connected.
"The firmer the woman's footing in society, the worse it is.
That's much the same as--not merely carrying the _fardeau_ in your arms--but tearing it away from someone else."
"You have never loved," Vronsky said softly, looking straight before him and thinking of Anna.
"Perhaps.
But you remember what I've said to you.
And another thing, women are all more materialistic than men.
We make something immense out of love, but they are always _terre-a-terre_."
"Directly, directly!" he cried to a footman who came in.
But the footman had not come to call them again, as he supposed.
The footman brought Vronsky a note.
"A man brought it from Princess Tverskaya."
Vronsky opened the letter, and flushed crimson.
"My head's begun to ache; I'm going home," he said to Serpuhovskoy.
"Oh, good-bye then.
You give me _carte blanche!_"
"We'll talk about it later on; I'll look you up in Petersburg."
Chapter 22
It was six o'clock already, and so, in order to be there quickly, and at the same time not to drive with his own horses, known to everyone, Vronsky got into Yashvin's hired fly, and told the driver to drive as quickly as possible.
It was a roomy, old-fashioned fly, with seats for four.
He sat in one corner, stretched his legs out on the front seat, and sank into meditation.
A vague sense of the order into which his affairs had been brought, a vague recollection of the friendliness and flattery of Serpuhovskoy, who had considered him a man that was needed, and most of all, the anticipation of the interview before him--all blended into a general, joyous sense of life.
This feeling was so strong that he could not help smiling.
He dropped his legs, crossed one leg over the other knee, and taking it in his hand, felt the springy muscle of the calf, where it had been grazed the day before by his fall, and leaning back he drew several deep breaths.
"I'm happy, very happy!" he said to himself.
He had often before had this sense of physical joy in his own body, but he had never felt so fond of himself, of his own body, as at that moment.
He enjoyed the slight ache in his strong leg, he enjoyed the muscular sensation of movement in his chest as he breathed.
The bright, cold August day, which had made Anna feel so hopeless, seemed to him keenly stimulating, and refreshed his face and neck that still tingled from the cold water.
The scent of brilliantine on his whiskers struck him as particularly pleasant in the fresh air.