Anna Karenina (Literature Classics Series). Leo TolstoyЧитать онлайн книгу.
let me alone. They feel that it is something different, that it is not a game, and that this woman is dearer to me than life. That is incomprehensible, and therefore it vexes them. Whatever our fate is or may be, we have made it and do not complain of it,’ he said, joining Anna and himself in the word ‘we.’ ‘No, they needs must teach us how to live. They have no conception of what happiness is, and they do not know that without love there is no happiness or unhappiness for us, for there would be no life,’ he thought.
He was angry with everybody for their interference, just because he felt in his soul that they were right. He felt that the love that united him with Anna was not momentary infatuation, which would pass, as Society intrigues do, without leaving any trace in the lives of the one or the other except pleasant or disagreeable memories. He felt all the torment of his and her position, all the difficulties they were surrounded by in consequence of their station in life, which exposed them to the eyes of the whole world, obliged them to hide their love, to lie and deceive, and again to lie and deceive, to scheme and constantly think about others while the passion that bound them was so strong that they both forgot everything but their love.
The recollection of incidents often repeated rose vividly in his mind, where lies and deceptions revolting to his nature had been necessary. He remembered most vividly having more than once noticed her feeling of shame at the necessity for this deception and lying. And he experienced a strange feeling which since his union with Anna sometimes overcame him. It was a feeling of revulsion against something, against Karenin, or against himself or against the whole word — he hardly knew which. But he always drove away this strange feeling. And now too, having given himself a shake, he continued the current of his thoughts:
‘Yes, formerly she was unhappy, but proud and calm; but now she cannot be calm and dignified, though she still seems so. Yes, this must be brought to an end,’ he decided.
And for the first time the clear idea occurred to him that it was necessary to put an end to all this falsehood, and the sooner the better. ‘Throw up everything and let us two conceal ourselves somewhere alone with our love,’ said he to himself.
Chapter 22
THE downpour did not last long, and as Vronsky approached his destination — with his shaft-horse at full trot pulling alone, and the trace-horses galloping over the mud with the traces loose — the sun appeared again, the roofs of the houses and the old lime trees in the gardens on both sides glittered with the moisture, and the water dripped merrily from the branches and ran down from the roofs. He no longer thought about the shower spoiling the racecourse, but was glad, because, thanks to the rain, he was sure to find Anna at home and alone, for he knew that Karenin, who had recently returned from a watering-place abroad, had not moved from Petersburg.
Hoping to find her alone, Vronsky, as usual, to attract less attention, alighted before crossing the little bridge that led to the house and walked on. He did not go straight to the entrance from the street but passed through the yard.
‘Has your master returned?’ he asked a gardener.
‘No, sir. The mistress is at home. Go in at the front door; the servants are there and will open it,’ replied the man.
‘No, I will go through the garden.’
Having made sure that she was alone, and wishing to take her by surprise (he had not promised to come that day and she would certainly not expect him to come before the races), he went, holding up his sword and stepping carefully along the sand-strewn flower-bordered path to the verandah facing the garden. Vronsky had now forgotten all his thoughts on the way, about the hardness and difficulty of his situation. He only thought that he would see her immediately, not merely in fancy, but alive, all of her — as she was in reality. He was already ascending the shallow steps of the verandah, stepping on the whole of his foot so as not to make a noise, when he suddenly remembered what he was always forgetting, the most painful part of his relations with her, namely her son, with his questioning and, as it seemed to Vronsky, inimical look.
That boy was a more frequent hindrance to their relations than anyone else. When he was present neither Vronsky nor Anna allowed themselves to speak about anything they could not have mentioned to every one or even to hint at things the boy would not have understood. They had not arranged this, but it had come about of itself. They would have considered it unworthy of themselves to deceive that child. In his presence they talked as acquaintances. Yet despite this caution Vronsky often noticed the child’s attentive and perplexed gaze fixed upon him and a strange timidity and unevenness — now caressing, now cold and bashful — in the boy’s manner toward him. It was as if the child felt that between that man and his mother there was some important relation which he could not understand.
And the boy really felt that he could not understand this relation. He tried but could not make out what he ought to feel toward this man. With a child’s sensitiveness to indications of feeling, he clearly saw that his father, his governess, and his nurse all not only disliked Vronsky but regarded him with fear and loathing, though they said nothing about him, while his mother regarded him as her best friend.
‘What does it mean? Who is he? How should I love him? If I don’t understand, it is my fault, I am a silly or a bad boy,’ thought the child, and that was the cause of his testing, questioning, and to some extent hostile expression and of the shyness and fitfulness Vronsky found so irksome. The presence of that child always aroused in Vronsky that strange feeling of unreasoning revulsion which had of late come to him. It evoked both in Vronsky and in Anna a feeling such as a sailor might have who saw by the compass that the direction in which he was swiftly sailing diverged widely from the right course but was quite unable to stop, and felt that every moment was taking him farther and farther astray, and that to acknowledge to himself that he was diverging from the right direction was tantamount to acknowledging that he was lost.
This child with his naïve outlook on life was the compass which showed them their degree of divergence from what they knew, but would not recognize, as the right course.
This time Serezha was not at home, and Anna was quite alone, sitting on the verandah waiting for the return of her son, who had gone for a walk and had been caught in the rain. She had sent a man and a maidservant to look for him and sat waiting. She wore a white dress trimmed with wide embroidery, and as she sat in a corner of the verandah behind some plants, did not hear Vronsky coming. Bowing her curly head she pressed her forehead against a cold watering-can that stood on the balustrade, and both her beautiful hands, with the rings he knew so well, were holding the can. The beauty of her whole figure, her head, her neck, and her arms, always struck Vronsky with new surprise. He stopped, gazing at her with rapture. But just as he was going to step toward her, she felt his nearness, pushed away the can, and turned her hot face toward him.
‘What is the matter? Aren’t you well?’ he said in French as he came up to her. He wished to run toward her, but remembering that there might be others near, turned to look at the verandah door and blushed, as he always did when he felt that he had reason to fear and to be circumspect.
‘No, I am quite well,’ she said, rising and firmly pressing his outstretched hand. ‘I did not expect — you.’
‘Oh, heavens! What cold hands!’ he said.
‘You frightened me,’ she said. ‘I am alone and was expecting Serezha. He went for a walk; they will return this way.’
But though she tried to be calm her lips trembled.
‘Forgive me for coming, but I could not let the day pass without seeing you,’ he continued in French. In Russian the word you sounded cold and it was dangerous to say thou, so he always spoke French to her.
‘Why “forgive”? I am so glad!’
‘But you are ill or in trouble,’ he continued without releasing her hand, but bending over it. ‘What were you thinking about?’
‘Always about the same thing,’ she said with a