“‘The doctor, the nurse, and Count Vronsky.’
“Karenin went into the drawing-room. There was nobody there; but the sound of his steps brought the nurse, in a cap with lilac ribbons, out of the boudoir. She came to Karenin, and, taking him by the hand with the familiarity that the approach of death permits, led him into the sleeping-room.
“‘Thank the Lord that you have come! She talks of nothing but you; always of you,’ she said.
“‘Bring some ice quick!’ said the imperative voice of the doctor from the chamber.
“In the boudoir, sitting on a little low chair, Karenin saw Vronsky weeping, his face covered with his hands. He started at the sound of the doctor’s voice, uncovered his face, and found himself in the presence of Karenin. The sight of him disturbed him so much that he sank down in his chair, as if he wanted to disappear out of sight; then, making a great effort, he rose, and said,—
“‘She is dying: the doctors say that there is no hope. I am in your power. Only allow me to remain here. I will conform to your wishes in every other respect. I’—
“When he saw Vronsky in tears, Karenin felt the involuntary tenderness that the sufferings of others always caused him: he turned away his head without replying, and went to the door.”
“Karenin’s wrinkled face expressed acute suffering: he wanted to speak, but his lower lip trembled so that he could not utter a word, and his emotion hardly allowed him to glance at his dying wife. He took her hand, and held it between his own. Every time that he turned his head towards her, he saw her eyes fixed on him with a sweetness and a humility that he had never seen there before.
“‘Wait! you do not know—Wait, wait!’ She stopped to collect her thoughts. ‘Yes,’ she began again, ‘yes, yes, yes, this is what I want to say. Do not be astonished. I am always the same, but there is another being within me, whom I fear: it is she who loved him, him, and hated you; and I could not forget what I had once been. Now I am myself, entirely, really myself, and not another. I am dying, I know that I am dying.... One thing only is indispensable to me: forgive me, forgive me wholly! I am a sinner; but Serozha’s nurse told me that there was a holy martyr—what was her name?—who was worse than I. I will go to Rome: there is a desert there. I shall not trouble anybody there. I will only take Serozha and my little daughter. No, you cannot forgive me: I know very well that it is impossible. Go away, go away! you are too perfect!’