Anna Karenina (Dole)/Part Two/Chapter 22
CHAPTER XXII
The shower was of short duration; and when Vronsky reached Peterhof, his shaft-horse at full trot, and the other two galloping along in the mud, the sun was already out again, and the wet roofs of the villas and the old lindens in the gardens on both sides of the principal avenue were dazzlingly shining. The water was running from the roofs, and the raindrops were dripping from the tree-tops. He no longer thought of the harm that the shower might do the race-course, but he was full of joy as he remembered that, thanks to the rain, she would be alone; for he knew that Alekseï Aleksandrovitch, who had just got back from a visit to the baths, would not have driven out from Petersburg.
Hoping to find her alone, Vronsky stopped his horses, as he always did, at some little distance from the house, in order to attract as little attention as possible, and, not driving across the little bridge, got out and went to the house on foot. He did not go to the front entrance, but went through the court.
"Has the barin come?" he asked of a gardener.
"Not yet; but the baruinya is at home. Go to the front door; there are servants there; if you ring, they will open the door."
"No; I will go in through the garden."
Having satisfied himself that she was alone, and wishing to surprise her, as he had not promised that he was coming that day, and on account of the races she would not be looking for him, he walked cautiously along the sandy paths, bordered with flowers, lifting up his saber so that it should make no noise. In this way he reached the terrace which led down to the garden. Vronsky had by this time forgotten all the thoughts which had oppressed him on the way about the difficulties of his situation; he thought only of the pleasure of shortly seeing her, not in imagination only, but alive, in person, as she was in reality.
He was mounting the steep steps as gently as possible, when he suddenly remembered what he was always forgetting, and what constituted the most painful feature of his relations with her,—her son, with his inquisitive and, as it seemed to him, repulsive face.
This child was the principal obstacle in the way of their interviews. When he was present neither Vronsky nor Anna allowed themselves to speak of anything which the whole world might not hear, nor, what was more, did they even hint at anything which the child himself could not comprehend. There was no need of an agreement on that score, it was instinctive with them. Both of them considered it degrading to themselves to deceive the little lad; before him they talked as if they were mere acquaintances. But in spite of this circumspection Vronsky often noticed the lad's scrutinizing and rather suspicious eyes fixed on him, and a strange timidity and variability in his behavior toward him. Sometimes he seemed affectionate, and then again cold and shy. The child seemed instinctively to feel that between this man and his mother there was some strange bond of union, which was beyond his comprehension.
In fact, the boy felt that he could not understand this relationship, and he tried in vain to account to himself for the feeling which he ought to have for this man. He saw, with that quick intuition peculiar to childhood, that his father, his governess, and his nurse—all of them—not only did not like Vronsky, but looked with the utmost disfavor on him, although they never spoke about him, while his mother treated him as her best friend.
"What does this mean? Who is he? Must I love him? and is it my fault, and am I a naughty or stupid child, if I don't understand it at all?" thought the little fellow. Hence came his timidity, his questioning and distrustful manner, and this changeableness, which were so unpleasant to Vronsky, The presence of this child always caused in Vronsky that strange feeling of unreasonable repulsion which for some time had pursued him.
The presence of the child aroused in Vronsky and Anna a feeling like that experienced by a mariner who sees by the compass that the course in which he is swiftly moving is widely different from what it should be, but that to stop this course is not in his power; that every instant carries him farther and farther in the wrong direction, and the recognition of the movement that carries him from the right course is the recognition of the ruin that impends.
This child with his innocent views of life was the compass which pointed out to them the degree of their deviation from what they knew but wished not to know.
This day Serozha was not at home and Anna was entirely alone, and sitting on the terrace waiting for the return of her son, who had gone out to walk and got caught in the rain. She had sent a man and a maid to find him, and was sitting there till he should return. Dressed in a white gown with wide embroidery, she was sitting at one corner of the terrace, concealed by plants and flowers, and she did not hear Vronsky's step. With her dark curly head bent, she was pressing her heated brow against a cool watering-pot, standing on the balustrade, and with both her beautiful hands laden with rings, which he knew so well, she was holding the watering-pot. The beauty of her figure, her head, her neck, her hands, always caused in Vronsky a new feeling of surprise. He stopped and looked at her in ecstasy. But as soon as he proceeded to take another step and come nearer to her, she felt his approach, pushed away the watering-pot, and turned to him her glowing face.
"What is the matter? Are you ill?" said he, in French, as he approached her. He felt a desire to run to her, but, remembering that there might be witnesses, he looked toward the balcony door and turned red, as he always turned red when he felt that he ought to be ashamed of himself and dread to be seen.
"No; I am well," said Anna, rising, and warmly pressing the hand that he offered her. "I did not expect .... you."
"Bozhe moï! how cold your hands are!"
"You startled me," said she. "I was alone, waiting for Serozha. He went out for a walk; they will come back this way."
But though she tried to be calm, her lips trembled.
"Forgive me for coming, but I could not let the day go by without seeing you," he continued, in French, as he always spoke, thus avoiding the impossible vui, you, and the dangerous tui, thou, of the Russian.
"What have I to forgive? I am so glad!"
"But you are ill, or sad?" said he, bending over her and still holding her hand. "What were you thinking about?"
"Always about one thing," she replied, with a smile.
She told the truth. If at any moment she had been asked what she was thinking about, she could have made the infallible reply, that she was thinking about one thing: her happiness and her unhappiness. Just as he had surprised her, she was thinking about this: she was thinking how it was that for some, for Betsy, for example,—for she knew about her love-affair with Tushkievitch, though it was a secret from society in general,—all this was such a trifle, while for her it was so painful. To-day this thought, for various reasons, had been particularly tormenting her.
She asked him about the races. He answered her, and, seeing that she was in a very excited state, in order to divert her mind, told her, in the tone most natural, about the preparation that had been made.
"Shall I, or shall I not, tell him?" she thought, as she looked at his calm, affectionate eyes. "He seems so happy, he is so interested in these races, that he will not comprehend, probably, the importance of what I must tell him."
"But you have not told me of what you were thinking when I came," said he, suddenly, interrupting the course of his narration. "Tell me, I beg of you!"
She did not reply; but she lifted her head a little, and looked at him questioningly from her beautiful eyes, shaded by her long lashes; her fingers, playing with a fallen leaf, trembled.
He saw this, and his face immediately showed the expression of humble adoration, of absolute devotion, which had so won her,
"I see that something has happened. Can I be easy for an instant when I know that you feel a grief that I do not share? In the name of Heaven, speak!" he insisted, in a caressing tone.
"I shall never forgive him if he does not appreciate the importance of what I have to tell him; better be silent than put him to the proof," she thought, continuing to look at him in the same way, and conscious that her hand, holding the leaf, trembled more and more violently.
"In the name of Heaven!" said he, taking her hand again.
"Shall I tell you?"
"Yes, yes, yes ...."
"Je suis enceinte!" she said, in a low and deliberate voice.
The leaf that she held in her fingers trembled still more, but she did not take her eyes from his face, for she wished to see how he would receive what she said.
He grew pale, tried to speak, then stopped short, dropped her hand, and hung his head.
"Yes, he understands the significance of this," she said to herself, and gratefully pressed his hand.
But she was mistaken in thinking that he appreciated the significance of what she had told him, as she, a woman, did. On learning this, he felt that he was attacked with tenfold force by that strange feeling of repulsion and horror which he had already experienced. But at the same time, he realized that the crisis which he had expected was now at hand, that it was impossible longer to keep the secret from the husband; and it was important to extricate themselves as soon as possible from the unnatural situation in which they were placed. Moreover, her anguish communicated itself to him physically. He looked at her with humbly submissive eyes, kissed her hand, arose, and began to walk up and down the terrace without speaking.
At last he approached her, and said in a tone of decision:—
"Well," said he, "neither you nor I have looked on our relations as a pastime, and now our fate is decided; at last we must put an end to the false situation in which we live,"—and he looked around him.
"Put an end? How put an end, Alekseï?" she asked gently.
She was calm now, and her face beamed with a tender smile.
"You must leave your husband and unite your life with mine."
"But aren't they already united?" she asked, in an almost inaudible voice.
"Yes, but not completely, not absolutely!"
"But how, Alekseï? tell me how," said she, with a melancholy irony at the hopelessness of her situation. "How is there any escape from such a position? Am I not the wife of my husband?"
"From any situation, however difficult, there is always some way of escape; here we must simply decide.—Anything is better than the life you are leading. How well I see how you are tormenting yourself about your husband, your son, society, all!"
"Akh! only not my husband," said she, with a simple smile. "I don't know him, I don't think about him! He is not."
"You speak insincerely! I know you; you torment yourself on his account also."
"Not even he knows ...." said she, and suddenly a bright crimson spread over her face; it colored her cheeks, brow, her neck, and tears of shame came into her eyes.
"Let us not speak more of him."