# Anna Karenina (Dole)/Part Five/Chapter 8

CHAPTER VIII
Anna, during this first period of freedom and rapid convalescence, felt herself inexcusably happy and full of joyous life. The memory of her husband's unhappiness did not poison her pleasure. This memory in one way was too horrible to think of. In another, her husband's unhappiness was the cause of a happiness for her too great to allow regret. The memory of everything that had followed since her sickness, the reconciliation with her husband, the quarrel, Vronsky's wound, his sudden appearance, the preparations for the divorce, the flight from her husband's home, the separation from her son,—all this seemed like a delirious dream, from which she awoke and found herself abroad alone with Vronsky. The recollection of the injury which she had done her husband aroused in her a feeling akin to disgust, and like that which a drowning man might experience after having pushed away a person clinging to him. The other person was drowned. Of course, what had been done was evil, but it was the only possible salvation, and it was better not to return to those horrible memories.
One consoling argument in regard to her conduct occurred to her at the first moment of the rupture, and now, whenever she thought of all that had passed, she went over this argument.
"I have done my husband an irrevocable injury," she said to herself, "but at least I get no advantage from his misfortune. I also suffer and shall suffer. I give up all that was dearest to me; I give up my good name and my son. I have sinned, and therefore I do not desire happiness, do not desire a divorce, and I accept my shame and the separation from my son."
But, however sincere Anna was when she reasoned thus, she had not suffered. She had felt no shame. With that tact which both she and Vronsky possessed to perfection, they had avoided, while abroad, any meeting with Russian ladies, and they had never put them​selves into any false position, but had associated only with those who pretended to understand their situation much better than they themselves did. Nor even the separation from her son, whom she loved, caused her any pain at this time. Her baby, her daughter, was so lovely and had so filled her heart since only the daughter was left to her, that she rarely thought of the son.
The joy of living caused by her convalescence was so keen, the conditions of her existence were so new and delightful, that Anna felt inexcusably happy. The more she came to know Vronsky, the more she loved him. She loved him for his own sake and for his love for her. The complete surrender to him was a delight. His presence was always a joy to her. All the traits of his character as she came to know them better and better became to her inexpressibly dear. His appearance, now that he dressed in civil attire instead of uniform, was as entrancing to her as for a young girl desperately in love. In all he said, thought, or did, she saw something noble and elevated. She herself often felt frightened at this excessive worship of him. She tried in vain to find any imperfection in him. She did not dare to confess to him her own inferiority, lest he, knowing it, should love her less. And now there was nothing that she feared so much, although there was not the slightest occasion for it, as to lose his love. But she could not fail to be grateful to him for the way he treated her or to show him how much she prized it.
Although in her opinion he had shown such a decided vocation for statesmanship, in which he would certainly have played an important part, and had sacrificed his ambition for her, still he had never expressed the slightest regret. He was more than ever affectionately respectful, and careful that she should never feel in the slightest degree the compromising character of her position. This man, so masculine, not only never opposed her, but moreover it might be said that he had no will besides hers, and his only aim seemed to be to anticipate her desires. And she could not but appreciate this, though this very assiduity in his attentions, this ​atmosphere of solicitude which he threw around her, was sometimes oppressive to her.
Vronsky, meantime, notwithstanding the complete realization of all that he had desired so long, was not entirely happy. He soon began to feel that the accomplishment of his desires was only a small portion of the mountain of pleasure which he had anticipated. This realization now proved to him the eternal error made by men who imagine their happiness lies in the accomplishment of their desires. During the first of the time after he had begun to live with her, and had put on his citizen's clothes, he experienced all the charm of a freedom such as he had never known before and the freedom of love, and he was satisfied with that; but not for long. He soon began to feel rising in his soul the desire of desires—toska, melancholy, homesickness, ennui. Involuntarily, he began to follow every light caprice as if they were serious aspirations and ends.
It was necessary to fill sixteen hours each day with some occupation, living, as they did, abroad, in perfect freedom, away from the social and military duties that took Vronsky 's time at Petersburg. He could not think of indulging in the pleasures such as he had enjoyed as a bachelor during his previous trips abroad, for one experiment of that kind—a scheme of a late supper with some acquaintances—reduced Anna to a most unexpected and uncomfortable state of dejection. The enjoyment with foreign or Russian society was impossible on account of the peculiarity of their relation. And to amuse himself with the curiosities of the country was not to be spoken of, not only because he had already seen them, but because as a Russian and a man of sense, he could not find in them that immense importance that the English are pleased to attach to them.
And as a hungry animal throws itself on everything that presents itself, hoping to find in it something to eat, so Vronsky, with perfect spontaneity, attacked, now politics, now new books, now painting.
As, when he was young, he had shown some inclination toward art, and, not knowing what to do with his money, ​had begun to collect engravings, he had tried his hand at painting. And now he took it up again, and employed in it that unexpended superfluity of energy which demanded employment. He had the capacity for appreciating art, and he thought that this was all that an artist needed. After having for some time hung doubtful which he would choose,—the religious, the historical, genre, or the realistic,—he actually began to paint. He understood all kinds, and could get inspiration from each; but he could not imagine that it was possible to be entirely ignorant of the various styles of art and to draw inspiration directly from what is in the soul itself, not caring what may be the result or to what famous school it may belong. As he did not know this, and drew his inspiration, not directly from life, but from life as expressed in art, so he became easily and speedily inspired, and with equal ease and rapidity succeeded in making what he undertook to paint a very good resemblance to that style which he was trying to imitate.
More than all others, the graceful and effective French school appealed to him, and in this style he began a portrait of Anna in an Italian costume; and this portrait seemed to him and to all that saw it very successful.