With the feeling of fatigue and uncleanness that comes from a night on the train, in the early mist of Petersburg Alexei Alexandrovich drove down the deserted Nevsky and stared straight ahead, not thinking of what awaited him. He could not think of it because, when he imagined what was to be, he could not rid himself of the thought that death would resolve at a stroke all the difficulty of his situation. Bakers, locked-up shops, night cabs, caretakers sweeping the pavements, flashed past his eyes, and he observed it all, trying to stifle within himself the thought of what awaited him and what he dared not wish but wished all the same. He drove up to the porch. A cab and a coach with a sleeping coachman stood at the entrance. As he went into the front hall, Alexei Alexandrovich drew a resolution, as it were, from a far corner of his brain and consulted it. It read: ‘If it is a deception, then calm contempt, and depart. If true, observe propriety.’
The hall porter opened the door even before Alexei Alexandrovich rang. The porter Petrov, also called Kapitonych, looked strange in an old frock coat, with no tie and in slippers.
‘How is the mistress?’
‘Safely delivered yesterday.’
Alexei Alexandrovich stopped and went pale. He now realized clearly how strongly he had desired her death.
‘And her health?’
Kornei, in a morning apron, came running down the stairs.
‘Very bad,’ he answered. ‘Yesterday there was a doctors’ consultation, and the doctor is here now.’
‘Take my things,’ said Alexei Alexandrovich and, feeling slightly relieved at the news that there was after all some hope of death, he went into the front hall.
There was a military coat on the rack. Alexei Alexandrovich noticed it and asked:
‘Who is here?’
‘The doctor, the midwife and Count Vronsky.’
Alexei Alexandrovich walked into the inner rooms.
There was no one in the drawing room; at the sound of his footsteps the midwife came out of the boudoir in a cap with violet ribbons.
She went up to Alexei Alexandrovich and with the familiarity that comes from the nearness of death took him by the arm and led him to the bedroom.
‘Thank God you’ve come! She talks only of you,’ she said.
‘Quickly fetch some ice!’ the doctor’s peremptory voice said from the bedroom.
Alexei Alexandrovich went into her boudoir. At her desk, his side to the back of the low chair, sat Vronsky, his face buried in his hands, weeping. At the sound of the doctor’s voice he jumped up, took his hands away from his face, and saw Alexei Alexandrovich. Seeing the husband, he was so embarrassed that he sat down again, drawing his head down between his shoulders as if he wished to disappear somewhere ; but he made an effort, stood up and said:
‘She’s dying. The doctors say there’s no hope. I am entirely at your mercy, but allow me to be here ... however, I shall do as you please, I...’
Alexei Alexandrovich, seeing Vronsky’s tears, felt a surge of that inner disturbance that the sight of other people’s suffering produced in him, and, averting his face, without waiting for him to finish, he hastily went to the door. From the bedroom came Anna’s voice saying something. Her voice was gay, animated, with extremely distinct intonations. Alexei Alexandrovich went into the bedroom and approached the bed. She lay with her face turned towards him. Her cheeks were flushed red, her eyes shone, her small white hands, sticking out of the cuffs of her jacket, toyed with the corner of the blanket, twisting it. She seemed not only healthy and fresh but also in the best of spirits. She spoke quickly, sonorously, and with unusually regular and deep-felt intonations.
‘Because Alexei - I am speaking of Alexei Alexandrovich (such a strange, terrible fate, that they’re both Alexei, isn’t it?) - Alexei wouldn’t refuse me. I would have forgotten, he would have forgiven ... But why doesn’t he come? He’s kind, he himself doesn’t know how kind he is. Ah! My God, what anguish! Give me water, quickly! Ah, it will be bad for her, for my little girl! Well, all right, let her have a wet nurse! I agree, it’s even better. He’ll come, it will be painful for him to see her. Take her away.’
‘Anna Arkadyevna, he has come. Here he is!’ said the midwife, trying to draw her attention to Alexei Alexandrovich.
‘Ah, what nonsense!’ Anna went on, not seeing her husband. ‘But give her to me, give me my little girl! He hasn’t come yet. You say he won’t forgive, because you don’t know him. No one ever knew him. Only I did, and even for me it was hard. His eyes, you should know, Seryozha has the same eyes, that’s why I can’t look at them. Did Seryozha have his dinner? I know everybody will forget. He wouldn’t have forgotten. You must move Seryozha to the corner room and ask Mariette to sleep with him.’
Suddenly she shrank, fell silent and fearfully, as if expecting to be struck, as if shielding herself, raised her hands to her face. She had seen her husband.
