462 463
freshly washed leaves.
She shivered, both from the cold and from the inward horror which
had clutched her with fresh force in the open air.
“Run along, run along to Mariette,” she said to Seryozha, who had
followed her out, and she began walking up and down on the straw
matting of the terrace. “Can it be that they won’t forgive me, won’t
understand how it all couldn’t be helped?” she said to herself.
Standing still, and looking at the tops of the aspen trees waving in
the wind, with their freshly washed, brightly shining leaves in the cold
sunshine, she knew that they would not forgive her, that everyone and
everything would be merciless to her now as was that sky, that green.
And again she felt that everything was split in two in her soul. “I
mustn’t, mustn’t think,” she said to herself. “I must get ready. To go
where? When? Whom to take with me? Yes, to Moscow by the
evening train. Annushka and Seryozha, and only the most necessary
things. But first I must write to them both.” She went quickly indoors
into her boudoir, sat down at the table, and wrote to her husband:—
”After what has happened, I cannot remain any longer in your house.
I am going away, and taking my son with me. I don’t know the law, and
so 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. Be generous,
leave him to me.”
Up to this point she wrote rapidly and naturally, but the appeal to
his generosity, a quality she did not recognize in him, and the 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,” she
said to herself, “there’s no need of anything,” and tearing up the letter,
she wrote it again, leaving out the allusion to generosity, and sealed it
up.
Another letter had to be written to Vronsky. “I have told my hus-
band,” she wrote, and she sat a long while unable to write more. It was
so coarse, so unfeminine. “And what more am I to write him?” she said
to herself. Again a flush of shame spread over her face; she recalled his
composure, and a feeling of anger against him impelled her to tear the
sheet with the phrase she had written into tiny bits. “No need of
anything,” she said to herself, and closing her blotting-case she went
upstairs, told the governess and the servants that she was going that
day to Moscow, and at once set to work to pack up her things.