"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.
In 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..."
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 articulation 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."