# Anna Karenina (Dole)/Part Five/Chapter 31

CHAPTER XXXI
Eagerly as Anna had desired to see her son again, long as she had thought about it, prepared herself be orehand, she had no idea of what an effect the sight of him would have on her; when she got back to her solitary room at the hotel again, she could not for a long time understand why she was there.
"Yes, all is over; I am alone again," she said to herself; and, without taking off her hat, she threw herself into an easy-chair which stood near the fireplace. And, fixing her eyes on a bronze clock standing on a table between two windows, she became absorbed in thought.
The French maid whom she had brought from abroad with her came and offered to help her dress; Anna looked at her with surprise, and replied, "By and by." A servant came to announce coffee; "By and by," she said.
The Italian nurse came in, bringing the little daughter whom she had just dressed; the plump, well-nurtured little one, as always, when she saw her mother, lifted up her bare little arms with the palms down, and, smiling with her toothless little mouth, began to beat the air with her plump little hands like a fish waving its fins, and to pull at the starched tucks of her embroidered skirt. No one could help smiling back, or kissing the little girl, or letting her catch hold of one of her fingers, screaming with delight, and jumping; no one could help pressing her lips for a kiss to the little sweet mouth. All this Anna did, and she took her into her arms, trotted her on her knee, and she kissed her fresh cheek and ​bare elbows; but the sight of this child made her feel clearly that the affection which she felt for it was not the same kind of love that she had for Serozha. Everything about this little girl was lovely; but somehow she did not fill the wants of her heart.
In her first-born, although he was the child of a man whom she did not love, was concentrated all the strength of a love which had not been satisfied. Her daughter, born in the most trying circumstances, had never received the one-hundredth part of the care which she had spent on Serozha. Moreover, the little girl, as yet, only represented hopes, while Serozha was almost a man, and a lovely man! He had already begun to struggle with his thoughts and feelings; he loved his mother, understood her, judged her perhaps, she thought, recalling her son's words and looks; and now she was separated from him forever, morally as well as materially; and she saw no way of remedying the situation.
She gave the little one back to her nurse, and sent them away, and opened a locket containing Serozha's picture about the same age as his sister; then, removing her hat, she took an album in which were photographs of her son at different periods; she wanted to compare them, and she began to take them out of the album. She took them all out. One was left, the last, the best photograph of him. It represented Serozha astride a chair, in a white frock, a smile on his lips and a shadow in his eyes; it was his most characteristic, his best expression. Holding the album in her little deft hands, which to-day moved with extraordinary nervousness, she tried with her slender white fingers to take it from its place; but the photograph stuck, and she could not get at it. There was no paper-cutter on the table, and she took up another photograph at random to push out the card from its place.
It was a picture of Vronsky, taken in Rome, with long hair and a round felt hat.
"Ah! there he is," she said to herself, and as she looked at him she suddenly remembered that he was the cause of all her present suffering.
​Not once had she thought of him all the morning; but now suddenly the sight of this manly and noble face, which she knew and loved so well, brought a flood of affection to her heart.
"Yes! Where is he? Why does he leave me alone, a prey to my grief?" she asked with bitter reproach, forgetting that she herself had carefully concealed from him everything concerning her son. She sent a message to him, asking him to come to her immediately, and waited, with heavy heart, thinking over the words with which she should tell him all, and the loving expressions with which he would try to console her. The servant returned to say that Vronsky had a visitor, but that he would come very soon; and would like to know if she could receive him with Prince Yashvin, who had just arrived in Petersburg.
"He will not come alone, and he has not seen me since yesterday at dinner," she thought; "and he does not come so that I can speak with him, but he comes with Yashvin."
And suddenly a cruel thought crossed her mind: what if he no longer loved her?
And as she went over in her mind all the incidents of the past few days, she found her terrible thought confirmed by them. The day before he had not dined with her; they did not have the same room, now that they were in Petersburg; and now he was bringing some one with him as if to avoid being alone with her.
"But he must tell me this. I must know it. If it is true, I know what I must do," she said to herself, wholly unable to imagine what would happen if Vronsky's indifference should prove to be true. She began to feel that he did not love her any more; she imagined herself reduced to despair, and in consequence her feelings made her overexcited; she rang for her maid, went into her dressing-room, and took extreme pains with her dress as if the sight of her toilet and becoming way of dressing her hair would bring back Vronsky's love, if he had grown indifferent.
The bell rang before she was ready.
​When she returned to the drawing-room, not Vronsky, but Yashvin, looked at her. Vronsky was looking at Serozha's picture, which she had left lying on the table, and he did not hurry to greet her.
"We are old acquaintances," she said to him, going toward him and placing her small hand in Yashvin's enormous hand. He was all confusion, and this seemed odd, in a man of his gigantic form and decided features.
"We met last year at the races.—Give them to me," she said, snatching her son's photographs from Vronsky, who was looking at them, while her eyes blazed at him significantly. "Were the races successful this year? We saw the races at Rome on the Corso. But I believe you do not like life abroad," she added, with a fascinating smile. "I know you, and, although we seldom meet, I know your tastes."
"I am very sorry for that, because my tastes are generally bad," said Yashvin, biting the left side of his mustache.
After they had talked some little time, Yashvin, seeing Vronsky look at his watch, asked Anna if she expected to be in Petersburg long. Then, bending down his huge back, he picked up his kepi.
"Probably not long," she replied, in some confusion, and looked at Vronsky.
"Then we shall not meet again?" said Yashvin, getting up and addressing Vronsky. "Where are you going to dine?"
"Come and dine with me," said Anna, with decision; and, vexed because she could not conceal her confusion whenever her false situation became evident before a stranger, she blushed. "The table here is not good, but you will at least see each other. Of all Alekseï's messmates, you are his favorite."
"I should be delighted," replied Yashvin, with a smile which proved to Vronsky that he was very much pleased with Anna. Yashvin took leave of them and went away, while Vronsky lingered behind.
"Are you going too?" she asked him.
​"I am already late. Go ahead, I will overtake you," he shouted to Yashvin.
She took his hand, and, without removing her eyes from him, tried to find something to say to detain him.
"Wait; I want to ask you something," and she pressed Vronsky's hand against her cheek. "Well! did I do wrong to invite him to dinner?"
"You did quite right," he replied, with a calm smile which showed his solid teeth, and he kissed her hand.
"Alekseï, do you feel changed toward me?" she asked, pressing his hand between her own. "Alekseï, I am tired of staying here. When shall we go away?"
"Soon, very soon. You can't imagine how life here weighs upon me too," and he drew away his hand.
"Well! go, go away!" she said, in an injured tone, and quickly left him.