Walks, conversations with Princess Varvara, visits to the hospital and, above all, reading, reading one book after another, occupied her time. But on the sixth day, when the coachman came back without him, she felt that she no longer had the strength to stifle her thoughts of him and of what he was doing there. Just then her daughter became sick. Anna began to look after her, but that did not distract her either, particularly as the sickness was not dangerous. Much as she tried, she could not love this girl, nor could she pretend to love her. Towards evening of that day, left alone, Anna felt such fear about him that she almost decided to go to town, but, thinking better of it, wrote that contradictory letter which Vronsky received and, without rereading it, sent it with a messenger. The next morning she received his letter and regretted her own. She anticipated with horror the repetition of that stern look he had cast at her as he was leaving, especially when he discovered that the girl was not dangerously sick. But all the same she was glad she had written to him. Anna now admitted to herself that he was burdened by her, that he would regret parting with his freedom and coming back to her, but in spite of that she was glad of his coming. Let him be burdened, but let him be there with her, so that she could see him and know his every move.
She was sitting in the drawing room, under a lamp, with a new book by Taine,13 reading and listening to the noise of the wind outside, and expecting the carriage to arrive any moment. Several times she thought she heard the sound of wheels, but was mistaken; at last she heard not only the sound of wheels but the driver’s shouts and the hollow sound under the portico. Even Princess Varvara, who was playing patience, confirmed it, and Anna, flushing, got up, but instead of going downstairs as she had already done twice, she stopped. She suddenly felt ashamed of her lie, but frightened most of all at how he was going to greet her. The offended feeling was gone now; she only feared he would show his displeasure. She remembered that their daughter had already been well for two days. She was even vexed that she had recovered just as the letter was sent. Then she remembered him, that he was there, all of him, with his hands, his eyes. She heard his voice. And, forgetting everything, she joyfully ran to meet him.
‘Well, how’s Annie?’ he said timidly from below, looking at Anna running down to him.
He was sitting in a chair, and the footman was pulling off one of his warm boots.
‘All right, she’s better.’
‘And you?’ he said, giving himself a shake.
She took his hand in both of hers and drew it to her waist, not taking her eyes off him.
‘Well, I’m very glad,’ he said, coldly looking at her, her hair, the dress he knew she had put on for him.
He liked it all, but he had already liked it so many times! And the stony, stern expression she had been so afraid of settled on his face.
‘Well, I’m very glad. And are you well?’ he said, wiping his wet beard with a handkerchief and kissing her hand.
‘It makes no difference,’ she thought, ‘as long as he’s here, and when he’s here he can’t, he daren’t not love me. ’
The evening passed happily and cheerfully in the presence of Princess Varvara, who complained to him that without him Anna took morphine.
‘What was I to do? I couldn’t sleep ... My thoughts troubled me. When he’s here I never take it. Almost never.’
He told her about the elections, and Anna, with her questions, was able to guide him to the very thing that cheered him - his success. She told him about everything that interested him at home. And all her news was most cheerful.
But late at night, when they were alone, Anna, seeing that she was again in full possession of him, wished to wipe away the painful impression of that look owing to the letter. She said:
‘But confess, you were vexed to get the letter and didn’t believe me?’
As soon as she said it, she realized that however amorously disposed he was towards her now, he had not forgiven her for it.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘The letter was so strange. First Annie’s sick, and then you want to come yourself.’
‘It was all true.’
‘I don’t doubt that.’
‘Yes, you do. You’re displeased, I can see.’
‘Not for one minute. I’m only displeased, it’s true, that you seem not to want to admit there are responsibilities ...’
‘Responsibilities to go to a concert ...’
‘Let’s not talk about it,’ he said.
‘And why not talk about it?’ she said.
‘I merely wish to say that business may come up, something necessary. Now, you see, I’ll have to go to Moscow to do with the house ... Ah, Anna, why are you so irritable? Don’t you know I can’t live without you?’
‘If so,’ said Anna, in a suddenly changed voice, ‘then this life is a burden to you ... Yes, you’ll come for a day and then go, as men do ...’
‘Anna, that’s cruel. I’m ready to give my whole life ...’
But she was not listening to him.
‘If you go to Moscow, I’ll go, too. I won’t stay here. Either we separate or we live together.’
