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-à-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, goodbye then. You give me carte blanche!”
“We’ll talk about it later on; I’ll look you up in Petersburg.”