Part Three: Chapter 15

by Leo Tolstoy

　　Though Anna had obstinately and with exasperation contradictedVronsky when he told her their position was impossible, at thebottom of her heart she regarded her own position as false anddishonorable, and she longed with her whole soul to change it.On the way home from the races she had told her husband the truthin a moment of excitement, and in spite of the agony she hadsuffered in doing so, she was glad of it. After her husband hadleft her, she told herself that she was glad, that now everythingwas made clear, and at least there would be no more lying anddeception. It seemed to her beyond doubt that her position wasnow made clear forever. It might be bad, this new position, butit would be clear; there would be no indefiniteness or falsehoodabout it. The pain she had caused herself and her husband inuttering those words would be rewarded now by everything beingmade clear, she thought. That evening she saw Vronsky, but shedid not tell him of what had passed between her and her husband,though, to make the position definite, it was necessary to tellhim.

　　When she woke up next morning the first thing that rose to hermind was what she had said to her husband, and those words seemedto her so awful that she could not conceive now how she couldhave brought herself to utter those strange, coarse words, andcould not imagine what would come of it. But the words werespoken, and Alexey Alexandrovitch had gone away without sayinganything. "I saw Vronsky and did not tell him. At the veryinstant he was going away I would have turned him back and toldhim, but I changed my mind, because it was strange that I hadnot told him the first minute. Why was it I wanted to tell himand did not tell him?" And in answer to this question a burningblush of shame spread over her face. She knew what had kept herfrom it, she knew that she had been ashamed. Her position, whichhad seemed to her simplified the night before, suddenly struckher now as not only not simple, but as absolutely hopeless. Shefelt terrified at the disgrace, of which she had not ever thoughtbefore. Directly she thought of what her husband would do, themost terrible ideas came to her mind. She had a vision of beingturned out of the house, of her shame being proclaimed to all theworld. She asked herself where she should go when she was turnedout of the house, and she could not find an answer.

　　When she thought of Vronsky, it seemed to her that he did notlove her, that he was already beginning to be tired of her, thatshe could not offer herself to him, and she felt bitter againsthim for it. It seemed to her that the words that she had spokento her husband, and had continually repeated in her imagination,she had said to everyone, and everyone had heard them. She couldnot bring herself to look those of her own household in the face.She could not bring herself to call her maid, and still less godownstairs and see her son and his governess.

　　The maid, who had been listening at her door for a long while,came into her room of her own accord. Anna glanced inquiringlyinto her face, and blushed with a scared look. The maid beggedher pardon for coming in, saying that she had fancied the bellrang. She brought her clothes and a note. The note was fromBetsy. Betsy reminded her that Liza Merkalova and BaronessShtoltz were coming to play croquet with her that morning withtheir adorers, Kaluzhsky and old Stremov. "Come, if only as astudy in morals. I shall expect you," she finished.

　　Anna read the note and heaved a deep sigh.

　　"Nothing, I need nothing," she said to Annushka, who wasrearranging the bottles and brushes on the dressing table. "Youcan go. I'll dress at once and come down. I need nothing."

　　Annushka went out, but Anna did not begin dressing, and sat inthe same position, her head and hands hanging listlessly, andevery now and then she shivered all over, seemed as though shewould make some gesture, utter some word, and sank back intolifelessness again. She repeated continually, "My God! my God!"But neither "God" nor "my" had any meaning to her. The idea ofseeking help in her difficulty in religion was as remote from heras seeking help from Alexey Alexandrovitch himself, although shehad never had doubts of the faith in which she had been broughtup. She knew that the support of religion was possible only uponcondition of renouncing what made up for her the whole meaning oflife. She was not simply miserable, she began to feel alarm atthe new spiritual condition, never experienced before, in whichshe found herself. She felt as though everything were beginningto be double in her soul, just as objects sometimes appear doubleto over-tired eyes. She hardly knew at times what it was shefeared, and what she hoped for. Whether she feared or desiredwhat had happened, or what was going to happen, and exactly whatshe longed for, she could not have said.

　　"Ah, what am I doing!" she said to herself, feeling a suddenthrill of pain in both sides of her head. When she came toherself, she saw that she was holding her hair in both hands,each side of her temples, and pulling it. She jumped up, andbegan walking about.

　　"The coffee is ready, and mademoiselle and Seryozha are waiting,"said Annushka, coming back again and finding Anna in the sameposition.

　　"Seryozha? What about Seryozha?" Anna asked, with suddeneagerness, recollecting her son's existence for the first timethat morning.

　　"He's been naughty, I think," answered Annushka with a smile.

　　"In what way?"

　　"Some peaches were lying on the table in the corner room. Ithink he slipped in and ate one of them on the sly."

　　The recollection of her son suddenly roused Anna from thehelpless condition in which she found herself. She recalled thepartly sincere, though greatly exaggerated, role of the motherliving for her child, which she had taken up of late years, andshe felt with joy that in the plight in which she found herselfshe had a support, quite apart from her relation to her husbandor to Vronsky. This support was her son. In whatever positionshe might be placed, she could not lose her son. Her husbandmight put her to shame and turn her out, Vronsky might grow coldto her and go on living his own life apart (she thought of himagain with bitterness and reproach); she could not leave her son.She had an aim in life. And she must act; act to secure thisrelation to her son, so that he might not be taken from her.Quickly indeed, as quickly as possible, she must take actionbefore he was taken from her. She must take her son and go away.Here was the one thing she had to do now. She neededconsolation. She must be calm, and get out of this insufferableposition. The thought of immediate action binding her to herson, of going away somewhere with him, gave her this consolation.

　　She dressed quickly, went downstairs, and with resolute stepswalked into the drawing room, where she found, as usual, waitingfor her, the coffee, Seryozha, and his governess. Seryozha, allin white, with his back and head bent, was standing at a tableunder a looking-glass, and with an expression of intenseconcentration which she knew well, and in which he resembled hisfather, he was doing something to the flowers he carried.

　　The governess had a particularly severe expression. Seryozhascreamed shrilly, as he often did, "Ah, mamma!" and stopped,hesitating whether to go to greet his mother and put down theflowers, or to finish making the wreath and go with the flowers.

　　The governess, after saying good-morning, began a long anddetailed account of Seryozha's naughtiness, but Anna did not hearher; she was considering whether she would take her with her ornot. "No, I won't take her," she decided. "I'll go alone withmy child."

　　"Yes, it's very wrong," said Anna, and taking her son by theshoulder she looked at him, not severely, but with a timid glancethat bewildered and delighted the boy, and she kissed him."Leave him to me," she said to the astonished governess, and notletting go of her son, she sat down at the table, where coffeewas set ready for her.

　　"Mamma! I...I...didn't..." he said, trying to make out from herexpression what was in store for him in regard to the peaches.

　　"Seryozha," she said, as soon as the governess had left the room,"that was wrong, but you'll never do it again, will you?... Youlove me?"

　　She felt that the tears were coming into her eyes. "Can I helploving him?" she said to herself, looking deeply into his scaredand at the same time delighted eyes. "And can he ever join hisfather in punishing me? Is it possible he will not feel for me?"Tears were already flowing down her face, and to hide them shegot up abruptly and almost ran out on to the terrace.

　　After the thunder showers of the last few days, cold, brightweather had set in. The air was cold in the bright sun thatfiltered through the freshly washed leaves.

　　She shivered, both from the cold and from the inward horror whichhad clutched her with fresh force in the open air.

　　"Run along, run along to Mariette," she said to Seryozha, who hadfollowed her out, and she began walking up and down on the strawmatting of the terrace. "Can it be that they won't forgive me,won't understand how it all couldn't be helped?" she said toherself.

　　Standing still, and looking at the tops of the aspen trees wavingin the wind, with their freshly washed, brightly shining leavesin the cold sunshine, she knew that they would not forgive her,that everyone and everything would be merciless to her now aswas that sky, that green. And again she felt that everything wassplit in two in her soul. "I mustn't, mustn't think," she saidto herself. "I must get ready. To go where? When? Whom totake with me? Yes, to Moscow by the evening train. Annushka andSeryozha, and only the most necessary things. But first I mustwrite to them both." She went quickly indoors into her boudoir,sat down at the table, and wrote to her husband:--"After whathas happened, I cannot remain any longer in your house. I amgoing away, and taking my son with me. I don't know the law, andso I don't know with which of the parents the son should remain;but I take him with me because I cannot live without him. Begenerous, leave him to me."

　　Up to this point she wrote rapidly and naturally, but the appealto his generosity, a quality she did not recognize in him, andthe necessity of winding up the letter with something touching,pulled her up. "Of my fault and my remorse I cannot speak,because..."

　　She stopped again, finding no connection in her ideas."No," shesaid to herself, "there's no need of anything," and tearing upthe letter, she wrote it again, leaving out the allusion togenerosity, and sealed it up.

　　Another letter had to be written to Vronsky. "I have told myhusband," she wrote, and she sat a long while unable to writemore. It was so coarse, so unfeminine. "And what more am I towrite him?" she said to herself. Again a flush of shame spreadover her face; she recalled his composure, and a feeling of angeragainst him impelled her to tear the sheet with the phrase shehad written into tiny bits. "No need of anything," she said toherself, and closing her blotting-case she went upstairs, toldthe governess and the servants that she was going that day toMoscow, and at once set to work to pack up her things.