to pacify her. ‘But still, don’t let us talk about him. Tell me what you have been doing? What is the matter with you? What is that illness of yours? What does the doctor say?’
She looked at him with quizzical joy. She had evidently remembered other comical and unpleasant sides of her husband’s character and waited for an opportunity to mention them.
He continued:
‘I expect it is not illness at all, but only your condition. When is it to be?’
The mocking light in her eyes faded, but a smile of a different kind — the knowledge of something unknown to him, and gentle sadness — replaced the former expression of her face.
‘Soon, soon. You were saying that our position was full of torment and should be put an end to. If you only knew how hard it is on me! What would I not give to be able to love you freely and boldly! I should not be tortured, I would not torment you with my jealousy… . It will happen soon, but not in the way you think.’ And at the thought of how it was going to happen she felt so sorry for herself that the tears came into her eyes and she could not continue. She laid her hand, sparkling with rings and the whiteness of the skin, on his sleeve.
‘It will not happen as we think. I did not want to tell you, but you make me do it. Soon, very soon, everything will get disentangled and we shall be able to rest and not torment each other any more.’
‘I do not understand,’ he said, though he did understand.
‘You were asking when? Soon, and I shall not survive it. Don’t interrupt,’ she said hurriedly. ‘I shall die, and I am very glad that I shall die: I shall find deliverance and deliver you.’
The tears ran down her cheeks; he stooped over her hand and began kissing it, trying to hide the emotion which he knew to be groundless but could not master.
‘That is right, that is better,’ she said, firmly pressing his hand. ‘This is all, all that remains to us.’
He recovered and lifted his head.
‘What rubbish, what senseless rubbish you are talking!’
‘No, it is not! It is true.’
‘What is true?’
‘That I am going to die; I have had a dream.’
‘A dream?’ Vronsky instantly remembered the peasant of his dream.
‘Yes, a dream,’ she said. ‘I dreamed it a long time ago. I thought I had run into my bedroom, that I had to fetch or find out something there: you know how it happens in dreams,’ and her eyes dilated with horror. ‘And in the bedroom there was something standing in the corner.’
‘Oh what nonsense! How can one believe? …’
But she would not allow him to stop her. What she was saying was of too much importance to her.
‘And that something turned round, and I saw it was a peasant with a rough beard, small and dreadful. I wanted to run away, but he stooped over a sack and was fumbling about in it… .’
She showed how he fumbled in the sack. Her face was full of horror. And Vronsky, remembering his dream, felt the same horror filling his soul.
‘He fumbles about and mutters French words, so quickly, so quickly, and with a burr, you know: “Il faut le battre, le fer: le broyer, le pétrir… .” [“It must be beaten, the iron: pound it, knead it… .”] And in my horror I tried to wake, but I woke still in a dream and began asking myself what it could mean; and Korney says to me: “You will die in childbed, in childbed, ma’am… .” Then I woke.’
‘What nonsense, what nonsense!’ said Vronsky, but he felt that there was no conviction in his voice.
‘Well, don’t let us talk about it. Ring the bell, I will order tea. But wait, it won’t be long and I …’
But suddenly she stopped. The expression of her face changed instantaneously. The horror and agitation were replaced by an expression of quiet, serious, and blissful attention. He could not understand the meaning of this change. She had felt a new life quickening within her.
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