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as though foreseeing their present relations could not continue, she
seemed to be expecting something from him.
Towards the end of February it happened that Anna’s baby daugh-
ter, who had been named Anna too, fell ill. Alexey Alexandrovitch was
in the nursery in the morning, and leaving orders for the doctor to be
sent for, he went to his office. On finishing his work, he returned home
at four. Going into the hall he saw a handsome groom, in a braided
livery and a bear fur cape, holding a white fur cloak.
“Who is here?” asked Alexey Alexandrovitch.
“Princess Elizaveta Federovna Tverskaya,” the groom answered,
and it seemed to Alexey Alexandrovitch that he grinned.
During all this difficult time Alexey Alexandrovitch had noticed
that his worldly acquaintances, especially women, took a peculiar in-
terest in him and his wife. All these acquaintances he observed with
difficulty concealing their mirth at something; the same mirth that he
had perceived in the lawyer’s eyes, and just now in the eyes of this
groom. Everyone seemed, somehow, hugely delighted, as though they
had just been at a wedding. When they met him, with ill-disguised
enjoyment they inquired after his wife’s health. The presence of Prin-
cess Tverskaya was unpleasant to Alexey Alexandrovitch from the
memories associated with her, and also because he disliked her, and he
went straight to the nursery. In the day nursery Seryozha, leaning on
the table with his legs on a chair, was drawing and chatting away
merrily. The English governess, who had during Anna’s illness re-
placed the French one, was sitting near the boy knitting a shawl. She
hurriedly got up, curtseyed, and pulled Seryozha.
Alexey Alexandrovitch stroked his son’s hair, answered the
governess’s inquiries about his wife, and asked what the doctor had
said of the baby.
“The doctor said it was nothing serious, and he ordered a bath, sir.”
“But she is still in pain,” said Alexey Alexandrovitch, listening to
the baby’s screaming in the next room.
“I think it’s the wet-nurse, sir,” the Englishwoman said firmly.
“What makes you think so?” he asked, stopping short.
“It’s just as it was at Countess Paul’s, sir. They gave the baby
medicine, and it turned out that the baby was simply hungry: the nurse
had no milk, sir.”
Alexey Alexandrovitch pondered, and after standing still a few
seconds he went in at the other door. The baby was lying with its head
thrown back, stiffening itself in the nurse’s arms, and would not take
the plump breast offered it; and it never ceased screaming in spite of
the double hushing of the wet-nurse and the other nurse, who was
bending over her.
“Still no better?” said Alexey Alexandrovitch.
“She’s very restless,” answered the nurse in a whisper.
“Miss Edwarde says that perhaps the wet-nurse has no milk,” he
said.
“I think so too, Alexey Alexandrovitch.”
“Then why didn’t you say so?”
“Who’s one to say it to? Anna Arkadyevna still ill...” said the nurse
discontentedly.
The nurse was an old servant of the family. And in her simple
words there seemed to Alexey Alexandrovitch an allusion to his posi-
tion.
The baby screamed louder than ever, struggling and sobbing. The
nurse, with a gesture of despair, went to it, took it from the wet-nurse’s
arms, and began walking up and down, rocking it.
“You must ask the doctor to examine the wet-nurse,” said Alexey