As a fact, the boy did feel that he could not understand this

relation, and he tried painfully, and was not able to make clear

to himself what feeling he ought to have for this man. With a

child's keen instinct for every manifestation of feeling, he saw

distinctly that his father, his governess, his nurse,--all did

not merely dislike Vronsky, but looked on him with horror and

aversion, though they never said anything about him, while his

mother looked on him as her greatest friend.

"What does it mean? Who is he? How ought I to love him? If I

don'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 and

uncertainty which Vronsky found so irksome. This child's

presence always and infallibly called up in Vronsky that strange

feeling of inexplicable loathing which he had experienced of

late. This child's presence called up both in Vronsky and in

Anna a feeling akin to the feeling of a sailor who sees by the

compass that the direction in which he is swiftly moving is far

from the right one, but that to arrest his motion is not in his

power, that every instant is carrying him further and further

away, and that to admit to himself his deviation from the right

direction is the same as admitting his certain ruin.

This child, with his innocent outlook upon life, was the compass

that showed them the point to which they had departed from what

they 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. She

had sent a manservant and a maid out to look for him. Dressed

in a white gown, deeply embroidered, she was sitting in a corner

of the terrace behind some flowers, and did not hear him.

Bending her curly black head, she pressed her forehead against a

cool watering pot that stood on the parapet, and both her lovely

hands, with the rings he knew so well, clasped the pot. The

beauty of her whole figure, her head, her neck, her hands, struck

Vronsky every time as something new and unexpected. He stood

still, gazing at her in ecstasy. But, directly he would have

made a step to come nearer to her, she was aware of his presence,

pushed away the watering pot, and turned her flushed face towards

him.




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