# Anna Karenina (Dole)/Part Four/Chapter 19

CHAPTER XIX
Alekseï Aleksandrovitch, when he prepared to see his wife again, had not foreseen the contingency of her repentance being genuine, and then of her recovery after she had obtained his pardon. This mistake appeared to him in all its seriousness two months after his return from Moscow; but the mistake which he had made proceeded not only from the fact that he had not foreseen this eventuality, but also from the fact that not until the day when he looked on his dying wife had he understood his own heart. Beside the bed of his dying wife, he had given way, for the first time in his life, to that feeling of sympathy for the griefs of others, against which he had always fought as one fights against a dangerous weakness. His pity for her and remorse at having wished for her death, but above all the joy of forgiving, had made him suddenly feel, not only a complete alleviation of his sufferings, but also a spiritual calmness such as he had never before experienced. He suddenly felt that the very thing that had been a source of anguish was now the source of his spiritual joy; what had seemed insoluble when he was filled with hatred and anger, became clear and simple now that he loved and forgave.
He had pardoned his wife, and he pitied her because of her suffering and repentance. He had forgiven Vronsky, and pitied him too, especially after he heard of his desperate act. He also pitied his son more than before, because he felt that he had neglected him. But what he felt for the new-born child was more than pity, it was almost tenderness. At first, solely from a feeling of pity, he looked after this little new-born girl, who was not his daughter, and who was so neglected during her mother's ​illness that she would have surely died if he had not taken her in charge; and, before he was aware of it, he became attached to her. He would go several times a day into the nursery, and sit there, so that the wet-nurse and the bonne, though they were a little intimidated at first, gradually became accustomed to his presence. He stayed sometimes for half an hour, silently gazing at the saffron-red, wrinkled, downy face of the sleeping child, following her motions as she scowled, and puckered her lips, watching her rub her eyes with the back of her little hands, curling up her round fingers. And at these moments especially, Alekseï Aleksandrovitch felt calm and at peace with himself, seeing nothing abnormal in his situation, nothing that he felt the need of changing.
However, as time went on, he felt more and more that he would not be permitted to remain in this situation, however natural it seemed to him, and that nobody would allow it.
He felt that, besides the holy and spiritual force that guided his soul, there was another force, brutal, equally if not more powerful, which directed his life, and that this power would not give him the peace that he desired. He felt that every one was looking at him, and questioning his attitude, not understanding it, and expecting him to do something. Especially he felt the unnaturalness and constraint of his relations with his wife.
When the tenderness which she felt at the expectation of death had passed away, Alekseï Aleksandrovitch began to notice how Anna feared him, how she dreaded his presence, and did not dare to look him in the face; she seemed to be always pursued by a thought she dared not express,—and as if she had a presentiment that their present relations could not last; she, too, expected some move from her husband.
Toward the end of February, the little girl, who had been named Anna for her mother, was taken ill. In the morning Alekseï Aleksandrovitch had seen her in the nursery, and, after he had left orders about calling the doctor he went to the ministry meeting. Having ​transacted his business he returned at four o'clock; as he entered the anteroom, he noticed an Adonis of a lackey, in livery and bearskin cloak, holding a white rotonda, or mantle, lined with American fox.
"Who is here?" he asked.
"The Princess Yehzavyeta Feodorovna Tverskaya," replied the lackey, with a smile, as it seemed to Alekseï Aleksandrovitch.
All through this painful period Alekseï Aleksandrovitch noticed that his society friends, especially the women, showed a very marked interest in him and in his wife. He noticed in them all that veiled look of amusement which he saw in the lawyer's eyes, and which he now saw in the lackey's. They all seemed delighted, as if they were going to a wedding. When people met him, and inquired after his health, they did so with this same half-concealed hilarity.
The presence of the Princess Tverskaya was not agreeable to Aleksel Aleksandrovitch, both because he had never liked her, and because she called up unpleasant memories, and so he went directly to the nursery.
In the first room, Serozha, leaning on a table, with his feet in a chair, was drawing, and chattering merrily. The English governess, who had replaced the French woman soon after Anna's illness, was sitting near the child, with her fancy work in her hand; she rose, made a courtesy, and put Serozha's feet down.
Alekseï Aleksandrovitch smoothed his son's hair, answered the governess's questions about his wife's health, and asked what the doctor said about baby.
"The doctor said that it was nothing serious. He ordered baths, sir."
"She is still in pain, nevertheless," said Alekseï Aleksandrovitch, hearing the child cry in the next room.
"I believe, sir, that the wet-nurse does not suit her," replied the Englishwoman, decidedly.
"What makes you think so?" he asked, as he paused on his way.
"It was the same at the Countess Pahl's, sir. They dosed the child with medicine, while it was merely suf​fering from hunger, sir. The wet-nurse had not enough milk for it."
Alekseï Aleksandrovitch considered for a few moments, and then went into the adjoining room. The child was crying as she lay in her nurse's arms, with her head thrown back, refusing the full breast that was offered her, and screamed, without yielding to the blandishments of the two women bending over her.
"Isn't she any better?" asked Alekseï Aleksandrovitch.
"She is very worrisome," replied the old nurse, in a whisper.
"Miss Edwards says that perhaps the nurse hasn't enough milk for her," said he.
"I think so too, Alekseï Aleksandrovitch."
"Why haven't you said so?"
"Whom should I say it to? Anna Arkadyevna is still ill," replied the old nurse, discontentedly.
The old nurse had been in the family a long time, and these simple words struck Alekseï Aleksandrovitch as an allusion to his position.
The child cried harder and harder, losing its breath, and becoming hoarse. The old nurse threw up her hands in despair, took the little one from the wet-nurse, and rocked her as she walked back and forth.
"You must ask the doctor to examine the wet-nurse," said Alekseï Aleksandrovitch.
The wet-nurse, a healthy-looking woman of fine appearance, sprucely dressed, who was afraid of losing her position, muttered to herself, as she fastened her dress over her great bosom, smiling scornfully at the doubt of her not having enough nourishment. In her smile Aleksei Aleksandrovitch also detected ridicule of his position.
"Poor little thing!" said the old nurse, trying to hush the child and still walking back and forth.
Alekseï Aleksandrovitch sat down in a chair, sad and crestfallen, and followed the old nurse with his eyes as she walked up and down with the child. When at last she had pacified it and placed it in the cradle, and, hav​ing arranged the little pillow, had moved away, Alekseï Aleksandrovitch rose, and went up to it on tiptoe. For a moment he was silent, and looked with melancholy face at the little thing. But suddenly a smile which moved his hair and the skin on his forehead spread over his face, and he quietly left the room.
He went into the dining-room, rang the bell, and ordered the servant that answered it to send for the doctor again. He was displeased because his wife seemed to take so little interest in this charming baby, and in this state of annoyance he wished neither to go to her room, nor to meet the Princess Betsy; but his wife might wonder why he did not come as usual; he crushed down his feelings and went to her chamber. As he walked along toward the door on a thick carpet, he unintentionally overheard a conversation which he would not have cared to hear.
"If he were not going away, I should understand your refusal, and his also. But your husband ought to be above that," said Betsy.
"It is not for my husband's sake, but my own, that I don't wish it. So say nothing more about it," replied Anna's agitated voice.
"Yes, but you can't help wanting to say good-by to the man who shot himself on your account." ....
"That is the very reason I do not wish to see him again."
Alekseï Aleksandrovitch, with an expression of fear and guilt, stopped, and started to go away without being heard; but, considering that this would lack dignity, he turned round again, and, coughing, went toward the chamber. The voices were hushed, and he went into the room.
Anna, in a gray khalat, with her thick dark hair cut short on her round head, was sitting in a reclining-chair. All her animation disappeared, as usual, at the sight of her husband; she bowed her head, and glanced uneasily at Betsy. Betsy, dressed in the latest fashion, with a little hat perched on the top of her head, like a cap over a lamp, in a dove-colored gown, trimmed with bright-col​ored bands on the waist on one side, and on the skirt on the other, was sitting beside Anna. She sat up as straight as possible, and welcomed Alekseï Aleksandrovitch with a nod and a sarcastic smile.
"Ah!" she began, affecting surprise, "I am delighted to meet you at home. You never show yourself anywhere, and I haven't seen you since Anna was taken ill. I learned of your anxiety from others. Indeed! you are a wonderful husband!" said she, with a significant and flattering look, as much as to say that she conferred on him the "order" of magnanimity on account of his behavior toward his wife.
Alekseï Aleksandrovitch bowed coldly, and, kissing his wife's hand, inquired how she was.
"Better, I think," she replied, avoiding his look.
"However, your face has a feverish look," he said, emphasizing the word "feverish."
"We have talked too much," said Betsy. "It was selfish on my part, and I am going now."
She rose; but Anna, suddenly flushing, seized her quickly by the arm.
"No, stay, I beg of you. I must tell you, .... no, you," she addressed Alekseï Aleksandrovitch, while the color increased on her neck and brow. "I cannot, nor do I wish to, hide anything from you," said she.
Alekseï Aleksandrovitch cracked his knuckles and bent his head.
"Betsy has told me that Count Vronsky wishes to come to our house to say good-by before he goes to Tashkend."
She did not look at her husband, and she evidently was in haste to get through with it, however hard it might be. "I have said that I could not receive him."
"You said, my dear, that it would depend on Alekseï Aleksandrovitch," corrected Betsy.
​Alekseï Aleksandrovitch approached, and wanted to take her hand.
Anna's first impulse was to withdraw her hand from her husband's clammy hand with its big, swollen veins; but she evidently controlled herself, and pressed it.
"I am very grateful to you for your confidence, but ...." he began, then stopped, awkward and annoyed, feeling that what he could easily and clearly decide when by himself, he could not settle in the presence of the Princess Tverskaya, who was the incarnation of that brutal force which he had to take as the guide of his life in the eyes of the world, and obliged him to renounce his feelings of love and forgiveness. He stopped as he looked at the Princess Tverskaya.
"Well, good-by, my treasure," said Betsy, rising. She kissed Anna, and went out. Karenin accompanied her.
"Alekseï Aleksandrovitch, I know that you are an extraordinarily magnanimous man," said Betsy, stopping in the middle of the boudoir to press his hand again with unusual fervor; "I am a stranger, and I love her so much, and esteem you so highly, that I take the liberty of giving you a bit of advice. Let him come. Alekseï Vronsky is the personification of honor, and he is going to Tashkend."
"I thank you for your sympathy and your advice, princess; but the question whether my wife can or cannot receive anybody is for her to decide."
He spoke these words with dignity, raising his eyebrows as usual; but he felt at once that, whatever his words had been, dignity was inconsistent with the situation. The sarcastic and wicked smile with which Betsy greeted his remark proved it beyond a doubt.