# Anna Karenina (Dole)/Part Six/Chapter 32

CHAPTER XXXII
Before Vronsky' s departure for the election, Anna, coming to the conclusion that the scenes which had always taken place every time he left her for a journey might serve to cool his love rather than attach him more firmly to her, resolved to control herself to the best of her ability, so as to endure calmly the separation from him. But the cold, stern look which he had given her when he came to tell her about his journey had wounded her, and he was hardly out of her sight before her resolution was shaken.
In her solitude, as she began to think over his cold look, which seemed to hint at a desire for liberty, she came back, as she always did, to one thing—to the consciousness of her humiliation.
"He has the right to go when and where he pleases. Not only to go, but to abandon me. He has all the rights, and I have none! But as he knows this, he ought not to have done this. And yet what has he done? .... He looked at me with a hard, stern look. Of course, that is vague, intangible. Still, he did not formerly look at me so, and it signifies much," she thought; "that look proves that he is growing cold toward me."
And, although she was persuaded that he had begun to grow cold toward her, still there was nothing she could do, there was no change she could bring about in her relations toward him. Just as before, she could retain his affections only by her love, by her fascination. And, just as before, the only way she could keep herself from thinking what would happen if he should abandon ​her, she busied herself incessantly all day; at night she took morphine.
To be sure, there was one means left—not to keep him with her—for this she wished nothing else but his love—but to bind him to her, to be in such a relation to him that he would not abandon her. This means was divorce and marriage; and she began to desire it, and resolved that she would agree to it the first time he or Stiva spoke about it again. With such thoughts she spent five days without him, the five days he expected to be away.
Drives and walks, conversations with the Princess Varvara, visits to the hospital, and, above all, reading, the reading of one book after another, occupied her time. But on the sixth day, when the coachman returned without bringing Vronsky, she felt that she no longer had strength enough left to smother the thought about him and what he was doing at Kashin. Just at this very time her little girl was taken ill. Anna attended to her, but it did not divert her mind, the more as the little one was not dangerously ill. Do the best she could, she did not love this child, and she could not pretend to feelings which had no existence.
On the evening of the sixth day, while she was entirely alone, she felt such apprehension about him that she almost made up her mind to start for the city herself, but after a long deliberation, she wrote the prevaricating note and sent it by a special messenger.
When, the next morning, she received his letter, she regretted hers. With horror she anticipated the repetition of that severe look which he would give her on his return—especially when he learned that his daughter had not been dangerously ill. But still she was glad she had written him. Now Anna acknowledged to herself that he might be annoyed by her, that he might miss his liberty, but yet she was glad that he was coming; suppose he was annoyed by her, still he would be there with her so that she should see him, so that she should be aware of his every motion.
She was sitting in the parlor, by the lamp, reading a ​new book of Taine's, listening to the sound of the wind outside, and watching every moment for the arrival of the carriage. Several times she thought that she heard the rumble of wheels, but she was deceived. At last she distinctly heard not only the wheels, but the coachman's voice, and the carriage rolling under the covered porch.
The Princess Varvara, who was laying out a game of patience, heard it too. Anna's face flushed; she rose, but, instead of going down, as she had twice done already, she stopped. She was suddenly ashamed at her deception, and still more alarmed by the doubt as to how he would receive her. All her irritation had vanished. All she feared was Vronsky's displeasure. She remembered that her daughter for two days now had been perfectly well. She was annoyed that the child should recover just as she sent off the letter.
And then she realized that he was there, himself, with his eyes, his hands. She heard his voice, joy filled her heart, and, forgetting everything, she ran to meet him.
"How is Ani?" he asked anxiously, from the bottom of the stairs, as she ran swiftly down.
He was seated in a chair, and his lackey was pulling off his furred boots.
"All right; much better."
"And you?" he asked, shaking himself.
She seized his two hands, and drew him toward her, looking into his eyes.
"Well, I am very glad," he said, coldly surveying her, her head-dress, her whole toilet, which, as he knew, had been put on expressly for him.
All this pleased him, but how many times had the same thing pleased him! and that stony, severe expression, which Anna so much dreaded, remained on his face.
"Well! I am very glad; and how are you?" he asked, kissing her hand, after he had wiped his damp mustache.
"It is all the same to me," thought Anna, "if only ​he is here; and when he is here he cannot help loving me; he does not dare not to love me."
The evening passed pleasantly and merrily in the presence of the Princess Varvara, who complained to him that when he was away Anna took morphine.
"What can I do? I cannot sleep,—my thoughts are distracting; when he is here, I never take it,—almost never."
Vronsky told about the elections, and Anna, by her questions, cleverly led him to talk about what especially pleased him, his own success. Then she told him all the interesting things that had happened since he went away, and took care to speak of nothing unpleasant.
But late in the evening, when they were alone, Anna, seeing that she had him at her feet again, wished to efface the unpleasant effect of her letter; she said:—
"Confess that you were displeased to receive my letter, and that you did not believe me."
As soon as she spoke she saw that, though he was affectionately disposed toward her, he did not forgive this.
"Yes," answered he, "your letter was strange. Ani was sick, and yet you yourself wanted to come."
"Both were true."
"Well, I do not doubt it."
"Yes, you do doubt. I see that you are angry."
"Not for one minute; but what vexes me is that you will not admit that there are duties ...."
"What duties? Going to concerts?"
"We won't talk about it."
"Why not talk about it?"
"I only mean that imperious duties may meet us. Now, for instance, I shall have to go to Moscow on business. .... Akh! Anna, why are you so irritable? Don't you know that I cannot live without you?"
"If this is the way," said Anna, changing her tone suddenly, "then you are tired of this kind of life. .... Yes, you come home one day and go away the next ...."
​But she would not listen to him.
"If you are going to Moscow, I shall go with you; I will not stay here alone. .... We must either live together or separate."
"But you know I ask nothing more than to live with you, but for that ...."
"The divorce is necessary. I will write him. I see that I cannot continue to live in this way But I am going with you to Moscow."
"You really threaten me; but all I ask in the world is not to be separated from you," said Vronsky, smiling.
As the count spoke these affectionate words, the look in his eyes was not only icy, but wrathful, like that of a man persecuted and exasperated.
She saw his look and accurately read its meaning.
"If this is so, then it is misfortune!" said this look. The expression was only momentary, but she never forgot it.