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Alexey Alexandrovitch, seeing Vronsky’s tears, felt a rush of that
nervous emotion always produced in him by the sight of other people’s
suffering, and turning away his face, he moved hurriedly to the door,
without hearing the rest of his words. From the bedroom came the
sound of Anna’s voice saying something. Her voice was lively, eager,
with exceedingly distinct intonations. Alexey Alexandrovitch went into
the bedroom, and went up to the bed. She was lying turned with her
face towards him. Her cheeks were flushed crimson, her eyes glittered,
her little white hands thrust out from the sleeves of her dressing gown
were playing with the quilt, twisting it about. It seemed as though she
were not only well and blooming, but in the happiest frame of mind.
She was talking rapidly, musically, and with exceptionally correct ar-
ticulation and expressive intonation.
“For Alexey—I am speaking of Alexey Alexandrovitch (what a
strange and awful thing that both are Alexey, isn’t it?)—Alexey would
not refuse me. I should forget, he would forgive.... But why doesn’t he
come? He’s so good he doesn’t know himself how good he is. Ah, my
God, what agony! Give me some water, quick! Oh, that will be bad for
her, my little girl! Oh, very well then, give her to a nurse. Yes, I agree,
it’s better in fact. He’ll be coming; it will hurt him to see her. Give her
to the nurse.”
“Anna Arkadyevna, he has come. Here he is!” said the midwife,
trying to attract her attention to Alexey Alexandrovitch.
“Oh, what nonsense!” Anna went on, not seeing her husband.
“No, give her to me; give me my little one! He has not come yet. You
say he won’t forgive me, because you don’t know him. No one knows
him. I’m the only one, and it was hard for me even. His eyes I ought to
know—Seryozha has just the same eyes—and I can’t bear to see them
because of it. Has Seryozha had his dinner? I know everyone will
forget him. He would not forget. Seryozha must be moved into the
corner room, and Mariette must be asked to sleep with him.”
All of a sudden she shrank back, was silent; and in terror, as though
expecting a blow, as though to defend herself, she raised her hands to
her face. She had seen her husband.
“No, no!” she began. “I am not afraid of him; I am afraid of death.
Alexey, come here. I am in a hurry, because I’ve no time, I’ve not long
left to live; the fever will begin directly and I shall understand nothing
more. Now I understand, I understand it all, I see it all!”
Alexey Alexandrovitch’s wrinkled face wore an expression of agony;
he took her by the hand and tried to say something, but he could not
utter it; his lower lip quivered, but he still went on struggling with his
emotion, and only now and then glanced at her. And each time he
glanced at her, he saw her eyes gazing at him with such passionate and
triumphant tenderness as he had never seen in them.
“Wait a minute, you don’t know...stay a little, stay!...” She stopped,
as though collecting her ideas. “Yes,” she began; “yes, yes, yes. This is
what I wanted to say. Don’t be surprised at me. I’m still the same....
But there is another woman in me, I’m afraid of her: she loved that
man, and I tried to hate you, and could not forget about her that used
to be. I’m not that woman. Now I’m my real self, all myself. I’m dying
now, I know I shall die, ask him. Even now I feel—see here, the
weights on my feet, on my hands, on my fingers. My fingers—see how
huge they are! But this will soon all be over.... Only one thing I want:
forgive me, forgive me quite. I’m terrible, but my nurse used to tell me;
the holy martyr—what was her name? She was worse. And I’ll go to
Rome; there’s a wilderness, and there I shall be no trouble to any one,
only I’ll take Seryozha and the little one.... No, you can’t forgive me! I
know, it can’t be forgiven! No, no, go away, you’re too good!” She held