It was all real.
Stepan Arkadyevitch felt that his head was getting worse and worse.
_"Que la personne qui est arrivee la derniere, celle qui demande, qu'elle sorte!
Qu'elle sorte!"_ articulated the Frenchman, without opening his eyes. _"Vous m'excuserez, mais vous voyez.... Revenez vers dix heures, encore mieux demain."_
_"Qu'elle sorte!"_ repeated the Frenchman impatiently.
_"C'est moi, n'est-ce pas?"_ And receiving an answer in the affirmative, Stepan Arkadyevitch, forgetting the favor he had meant to ask of Lidia Ivanovna, and forgetting his sister's affairs, caring for nothing, but filled with the sole desire to get away as soon as possible, went out on tiptoe and ran out into the street as though from a plague-stricken house. For a long while he chatted and joked with his cab-driver, trying to recover his spirits.
At the French theater where he arrived for the last act, and afterwards at the Tatar restaurant after his champagne, Stepan Arkadyevitch felt a little refreshed in the atmosphere he was used to.
But still he felt quite unlike himself all that evening.
On getting home to Pyotr Oblonsky's, where he was staying, Stepan Arkadyevitch found a note from Betsy.
She wrote to him that she was very anxious to finish their interrupted conversation, and begged him to come next day.
He had scarcely read this note, and frowned at its contents, when he heard below the ponderous tramp of the servants, carrying something heavy.
Stepan Arkadyevitch went out to look.
It was the rejuvenated Pyotr Oblonsky.
He was so drunk that he could not walk upstairs; but he told them to set him on his legs when he saw Stepan Arkadyevitch, and clinging to him, walked with him into his room and there began telling him how he had spent the evening, and fell asleep doing so.
Stepan Arkadyevitch was in very low spirits, which happened rarely with him, and for a long while he could not go to sleep.
Everything he could recall to his mind, everything was disgusting; but most disgusting of all, as if it were something shameful, was the memory of the evening he had spent at Countess Lidia Ivanovna's.
Next day he received from Alexey Alexandrovitch a final answer, refusing to grant Anna's divorce, and he understood that this decision was based on what the Frenchman had said in his real or pretended trance.
Chapter 23
In order to carry through any undertaking in family life, there must necessarily be either complete division between the husband and wife, or loving agreement.
When the relations of a couple are vacillating and neither one thing nor the other, no sort of enterprise can be undertaken.
Many families remain for years in the same place, though both husband and wife are sick of it, simply because there is neither complete division nor agreement between them.
Both Vronsky and Anna felt life in Moscow insupportable in the heat and dust, when the spring sunshine was followed by the glare of summer, and all the trees in the boulevards had long since been in full leaf, and the leaves were covered with dust. But they did not go back to Vozdvizhenskoe, as they had arranged to do long before; they went on staying in Moscow, though they both loathed it, because of late there had been no agreement between them.
The irritability that kept them apart had no external cause, and all efforts to come to an understanding intensified it, instead of removing it.
It was an inner irritation, grounded in her mind on the conviction that his love had grown less; in his, on regret that he had put himself for her sake in a difficult position, which she, instead of lightening, made still more difficult.
Neither of them gave full utterance to their sense of grievance, but they considered each other in the wrong, and tried on every pretext to prove this to one another.
In her eyes the whole of him, with all his habits, ideas, desires, with all his spiritual and physical temperament, was one thing--love for women, and that love, she felt, ought to be entirely concentrated on her alone. That love was less; consequently, as she reasoned, he must have transferred part of his love to other women or to another woman--and she was jealous.
She was jealous not of any particular woman but of the decrease of his love.
Not having got an object for her jealousy, she was on the lookout for it.
At the slightest hint she transferred her jealousy from one object to another.
At one time she was jealous of those low women with whom he might so easily renew his old bachelor ties; then she was jealous of the society women he might meet; then she was jealous of the imaginary girl whom he might want to marry, for whose sake he would break with her.
And this last form of jealousy tortured her most of all, especially as he had unwarily told her, in a moment of frankness, that his mother knew him so little that she had had the audacity to try and persuade him to marry the young Princess Sorokina.
And being jealous of him, Anna was indignant against him and found grounds for indignation in everything.
For everything that was difficult in her position she blamed him.
The agonizing condition of suspense she had passed in Moscow, the tardiness and indecision of Alexey Alexandrovitch, her solitude--she put it all down to him.
If he had loved her he would have seen all the bitterness of her position, and would have rescued her from it.
For her being in Moscow and not in the country, he was to blame too.
He could not live buried in the country as she would have liked to do.
He must have society, and he had put her in this awful position, the bitterness of which he would not see.
And again, it was his fault that she was forever separated from her son.
Even the rare moments of tenderness that came from time to time did not soothe her; in his tenderness now she saw a shade of complacency, of self-confidence, which had not been of old, and which exasperated her.
It was dusk.
Anna was alone, and waiting for him to come back from a bachelor dinner. She walked up and down in his study (the room where the noise from the street was least heard), and thought over every detail of their yesterday's quarrel.
Going back from the well-remembered, offensive words of the quarrel to what had been the ground of it, she arrived at last at its origin.
For a long while she could hardly believe that their dissension had arisen from a conversation so inoffensive, of so little moment to either.
But so it actually had been.
It all arose from his laughing at the girls' high schools, declaring they were useless, while she defended them.
He had spoken slightingly of women's education in general, and had said that Hannah, Anna's English protegee, had not the slightest need to know anything of physics.
This irritated Anna.
She saw in this a contemptuous reference to her occupations.
And she bethought her of a phrase to pay him back for the pain he had given her.