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Alexey Alexandrovitch decided that he would go to Petersburg
and see his wife. If her illness was a trick, he would say nothing and go
away again. If she was really in danger, and wished to see him before
her death, he would forgive her if he found her alive, and pay her the
last duties if he came too late.
All the way he thought no more of what he ought to do.
With a sense of weariness and uncleanness from the night spent
in the train, in the early fog of Petersburg Alexey Alexandrovitch drove
through the deserted Nevsky and stared straight before him, not think-
ing of what was awaiting him. He could not think about it, because in
picturing what would happen, he could not drive away the reflection
that her death would at once remove all the difficulty of his position.
Bakers, closed shops, night-cabmen, porters sweeping the pavements
flashed past his eyes, and he watched it all, trying to smother the
thought of what was awaiting him, and what he dared not hope for, and
yet was hoping for. He drove up to the steps. A sledge and a carriage
with the coachman asleep stood at the entrance. As he went into the
entry, Alexey Alexandrovitch, as it were, got out his resolution from the
remotest corner of his brain, and mastered it thoroughly. Its meaning
ran: “If it’s a trick, then calm contempt and departure. If truth, do what
is proper.”
The porter opened the door before Alexey Alexandrovitch rang.
The porter, Kapitonitch, looked queer in an old coat, without a tie, and
in slippers.
“How is your mistress?”
“A successful confinement yesterday.”
Alexey Alexandrovitch stopped short and turned white. He felt
distinctly now how intensely he had longed for her death.
“And how is she?”
Korney in his morning apron ran downstairs.
“Very ill,” he answered. “There was a consultation yesterday, and
the doctor’s here now.”
“Take my things,” said Alexey Alexandrovitch, and feeling some
relief at the news that there was still hope of her death, he went into
the hall
On the hatstand there was a military overcoat. Alexey
Alexandrovitch noticed it and asked:
“Who is here?”
“The doctor, the midwife and Count Vronsky.”
Alexey Alexandrovitch went into the inner rooms.
I the drawing room there was no one; at the sound of his steps
there came out of her boudoir the midwife in a cap with lilac ribbons.
She went up to Alexey Alexandrovitch, and with the familiarity
given by the approach of death took him by the arm and drew him
towards the bedroom.
“Thank God you’ve come! She keeps on about you and nothing
but you,” she said.
“Make haste with the ice!” the doctor’s peremptory voice said from
the bedroom.
Alexey Alexandrovitch went into her boudoir.
At the table, sitting sideways in a low chair, was Vronsky, his face
hidden in his hands, weeping. He jumped up at the doctor’s voice, took
his hands from his face, and saw Alexey Alexandrovitch. Seeing the
husband, he was so overwhelmed that he sat down again, drawing his
head down to his shoulders, as if he wanted to disappear; but he made
an effort over himself, got up and said:
“She is dying. The doctors say there is no hope. I am entirely in
your power, only let me be here...though I am at your disposal. I...”