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“Only not he. Don’t I know him, the falsity in which he’s utterly
steeped?... Could one, with any feeling, live as he is living with me?
He understands nothing, and feels nothing. Could a man of any
feeling live in the same house with his unfaithful wife? Could he talk
to her, call her ‘my dear’?”
And again she could not help mimicking him: “‘Anna, ma chere;
Anna, dear’!”
“He’s not a man, not a human being—he’s a doll! No one knows
him; but I know him. Oh, if I’d been in his place, I’d long ago have
killed, have torn to pieces a wife like me. I wouldn’t have said, ‘Anna,
ma chere’! He’s not a man, he’s an official machine. He doesn’t under-
stand that I’m your wife, that he’s outside, that he’s superfluous.... Don’t
let’s talk of him!...”
“You’re unfair, very unfair, dearest,” said Vronsky, trying to soothe
her. “But never mind, don’t let’s talk of him. Tell me what you’ve been
doing? What is the matter? What has been wrong with you, and what
did the doctor say?”
She looked at him with mocking amusement. Evidently she had
hit on other absurd and grotesque aspects in her husband and was
awaiting the moment to give expression to them.
But he went on:
“I imagine that it’s not illness, but your condition. When will it
be?”
The ironical light died away in her eyes, but a different smile, a
consciousness of something, he did not know what, and of quiet mel-
ancholy, came over her face.
“Soon, soon. You say that our position is miserable, that we must
put an end to it. If you knew how terrible it is to me, what I would give
to be able to love you freely and boldly! I should not torture myself and
torture you with my jealousy.... And it will come soon but not as we
expect.”
And at the thought of how it would come, she seemed so pitiable to
herself that tears came into her eyes, and she could not go on. She laid
her hand on his sleeve, dazzling and white with its rings in the lamplight
“It won’t come as we suppose. I didn’t mean to say this to you, but
you’ve made me. Soon, soon, all will be over, and we shall all, all be at
peace, and suffer no more.”
“I don’t understand,” he said, understanding her.
“You asked when? Soon. And I shan’t live through it. Don’t
interrupt me!” and she made haste to speak. “I know it; I know for
certain. I shall die; and I’m very glad I shall die, and release myself and
you.”
Tears dropped from her eyes; he bent down over her hand and
began kissing it, trying to hide his emotion, which, he knew, had no sort
of grounds, though he could not control it.
“Yes, it’s better so,” she said, tightly gripping his hand. “That’s the
only way, the only way left us.”
He had recovered himself, and lifted his head.
“How absurd! What absurd nonsense you are talking!”
“No, it’s the truth.”
“What, what’s the truth?”
“That I shall die. I have had a dream.”
“A dream?” repeated Vronsky, and instantly he recalled the peas-
ant of his dream.
“Yes, a dream,” she said. “It’s a long while since I dreamed it. I
dreamed that I ran into my bedroom, that I had to get something there,
to find out something; you know how it is in dreams,” she said, her eyes
wide with horror; “and in the bedroom, in the corner, stood something.”