Part Two: Chapter 22

by Leo Tolstoy

　　The rain did not last long, and by the time Vronsky arrived, hisshaft-horse trotting at full speed and dragging the trace-horsesgalloping through the mud, with their reins hanging loose, thesun had peeped out again, the roofs of the summer villas and theold limetrees in the gardens on both sides of the principalstreets sparkled with wet brilliance, and from the twigs came apleasant drip and from the roofs rushing streams of water. Hethought no more of the shower spoiling the race course, but wasrejoicing now that--thanks to the rain--he would be sure tofind her at home and alone, as he knew that AlexeyAlexandrovitch, who had lately returned from a foreign wateringplace, had not moved from Petersburg.

　　Hoping to find her alone, Vronsky alighted, as he always did, toavoid attracting attention, before crossing the bridge, andwalked to the house. He did not go up the steps to the streetdoor, but went into the court.

　　"Has your master come?" he asked a gardener.

　　"No, sir. The mistress is at home. But will you please go tothe frond door; there are servants there," the gardener answered."They'll open the door."

　　"No, I'll go in from the garden."

　　And feeling satisfied that she was alone, and wanting to take herby surprise, since he had not promised to be there today, and shewould certainly not expect him to come before the races, hewalked, holding his sword and stepping cautiously over the sandypath, bordered with flowers, to the terrace that looked out uponthe garden. Vronsky forgot now all that he had thought on theway of the hardships and difficulties of their position. Hethought of nothing but that he would see her directly, not inimagination, but living, all of her, as she was in reality. Hewas just going in, stepping on his whole foot so as not to creak,up the worn steps of the terrace, when he suddenly rememberedwhat he always forgot, and what caused the most torturing side ofhis relations with her, her son with his questioning--hostile,as he fancied--eyes.

　　This boy was more often than anyone else a check upon theirfreedom. When he was present, both Vronsky and Anna did notmerely avoid speaking of anything that they could not haverepeated before everyone; they did not even allow themselves torefer by hints to anything the boy did not understand. They hadmade no agreement about this, it had settled itself. They wouldhave felt it wounding themselves to deceive the child. In hispresence they talked like acquaintances. But in spite of thiscaution, Vronsky often saw the child's intent, bewildered glancefixed upon him, and a strange shyness, uncertainty, at one timefriendliness, at another, coldness and reserve, in the boy'smanner to him; as though the child felt that between this man andhis mother there existed some important bond, the significance ofwhich he could not understand.

　　As a fact, the boy did feel that he could not understand thisrelation, and he tried painfully, and was not able to make clearto himself what feeling he ought to have for this man. With achild's keen instinct for every manifestation of feeling, he sawdistinctly that his father, his governess, his nurse,--all didnot merely dislike Vronsky, but looked on him with horror andaversion, though they never said anything about him, while hismother looked on him as her greatest friend.

　　"What does it mean? Who is he? How ought I to love him? If Idon't know, it's my fault; either I'm stupid or a naughty boy,"thought the child. And this was what caused his dubious,inquiring, sometimes hostile, expression, and the shyness anduncertainty which Vronsky found so irksome. This child'spresence always and infallibly called up in Vronsky that strangefeeling of inexplicable loathing which he had experienced oflate. This child's presence called up both in Vronsky and inAnna a feeling akin to the feeling of a sailor who sees by thecompass that the direction in which he is swiftly moving is farfrom the right one, but that to arrest his motion is not in hispower, that every instant is carrying him further and furtheraway, and that to admit to himself his deviation from the rightdirection is the same as admitting his certain ruin.

　　This child, with his innocent outlook upon life, was the compassthat showed them the point to which they had departed from whatthey knew, but did not want to know.

　　This time Seryozha was not at home, and she was completely alone.She was sitting on the terrace waiting for the return of her son,who had gone out for his walk and been caught in the rain. Shehad sent a manservant and a maid out to look for him. Dressedin a white gown, deeply embroidered, she was sitting in a cornerof the terrace behind some flowers, and did not hear him.Bending her curly black head, she pressed her forehead against acool watering pot that stood on the parapet, and both her lovelyhands, with the rings he knew so well, clasped the pot. Thebeauty of her whole figure, her head, her neck, her hands, struckVronsky every time as something new and unexpected. He stoodstill, gazing at her in ecstasy. But, directly he would havemade a step to come nearer to her, she was aware of his presence,pushed away the watering pot, and turned her flushed face towardshim.

　　"What's the matter? You are ill?" he said to her in French,going up to her. He would have run to her, but remembering thatthere might be spectators, he looked round towards the balconydoor, and reddened a little, as he always reddened, feeling thathe had to be afraid and be on his guard.

　　"No, I'm quite well," she said, getting up and pressing hisoutstretched hand tightly. "I did not expect...thee."

　　"Mercy! what cold hands!" he said.

　　"You startled me," she said. "I'm alone, and expectingSeryozha; he's out for a walk; they'll come in from this side."

　　But, in spite of her efforts to be calm, her lips were quivering.

　　"Forgive me for coming, but I couldn't pass the day withoutseeing you," he went on, speaking French, as he always did toavoid using the stiff Russian plural form, so impossibly frigidbetween them, and the dangerously intimate singular.

　　"Forgive you? I'm so glad!"

　　"But you're ill or worried," he went on, not letting go her handsand bending over her. "What were you thinking of?"

　　"Always the same thing," she said, with a smile.

　　She spoke the truth. If ever at any moment she had been askedwhat she was thinking of, she could have answered truly: of thesame thing, of her happiness and her unhappiness. She wasthinking, just when he came upon her of this: why was it, shewondered, that to others, to Betsy (she knew of her secretconnection with Tushkevitch) it was all easy, while to her it wassuch torture? Today this thought gained special poignancy fromcertain other considerations. She asked him about the races. Heanswered her questions, and, seeing that she was agitated, tryingto calm her, he began telling her in the simplest tone thedetails of his preparations for the races.

　　"Tell him or not tell him?" she thought, looking into his quiet,affectionate eyes. "He is so happy, so absorbed in his racesthat he won't understand as he ought, he won't understand all thegravity of this fact to us."

　　"But you haven't told me what you were thinking of when I camein," he said, interrupting his narrative; "please tell me!"

　　She did not answer, and, bending her head a little, she lookedinquiringly at him from under her brows, her eyes shining undertheir long lashes. Her hand shook as it played with a leaf shehad picked. He saw it, and his face expressed that uttersubjection, that slavish devotion, which had done so much to winher.

　　"I see something has happened. Do you suppose I can be at peace,knowing you have a trouble I am not sharing? Tell me, for God'ssake," he repeated imploringly.

　　"Yes, I shan't be able to forgive him if he does not realize allthe gravity of it. Better not tell; why put him to the proof?"she thought, still staring at him in the same way, and feelingthe hand that held the leaf was trembling more and more.

　　"For God's sake!" he repeated, taking her hand.

　　"Shall I tell you?"

　　"Yes, yes, yes . . ."

　　"I'm with child," she said, softly and deliberately. The leaf inher hand shook more violently, but she did not take her eyes offhim, watching how he would take it. He turned white, would havesaid something, but stopped; he dropped her hand, and his headsank on his breast. "Yes, he realizes all the gravity of it,"she thought, and gratefully she pressed his hand.

　　But she was mistaken in thinking he realized the gravity of thefact as she, a woman, realized it. On hearing it, he felt comeupon him with tenfold intensity that strange feeling of loathingof someone. But at the same time, he felt that the turning-pointhe had been longing for had come now; that it was impossible togo on concealing things from her husband, and it was inevitablein one way or another that they should soon put an end to theirunnatural position. But, besides that, her emotion physicallyaffected him in the same way. He looked at her with a look ofsubmissive tenderness, kissed her hand, got up, and, in silence,paced up and down the terrace.

　　"Yes," he said, going up to her resolutely. "Neither you nor Ihave looked on our relations as a passing amusement, and now ourfate is sealed. It is absolutely necessary to put an end"--helooked round as he spoke--"to the deception in which we areliving."

　　"Put an end? How put an end, Alexey?" she said softly.

　　She was calmer now, and her face lighted up with a tender smile.

　　"Leave your husband and make our life one."

　　"It is one as it is," she answered, scarcely audibly.

　　"Yes, but altogether; altogether."

　　"But how, Alexey, tell me how?" she said in melancholy mockery atthe hopelessness of her own position. "Is there any way out ofsuch a position? Am I not the wife of my husband?"

　　"There is a way out of every position. We must take our line,"he said. "Anything's better than the position in which you'reliving. Of course, I see how you torture yourself overeverything--the world and your son and your husband."

　　"Oh, not over my husband," she said, with a quiet smile. "Idon't know him, I don't think of him. He doesn't exist."

　　"You're not speaking sincerely. I know you. You worry about himtoo."

　　"Oh, he doesn't even know," she said, and suddenly a hot flushcame over her face; her cheeks, her brow, her neck crimsoned, andtears of shame came into her eyes. "But we won't talk of him."