The porter, Kapitonitch, looked queer in an old coat, without a tie, and in slippers.
"How is your mistress?"
"A successful confinement yesterday."
Alexey Alexandrovitch stopped short and turned white.
He felt distinctly now how intensely he had longed for her death.
"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."
"Anna Arkadyevna, he has come.
Here he is!" said the midwife, trying to attract her attention to Alexey Alexandrovitch.
"Oh, what nonsense!" Anna went on, not seeing her husband. "No, give her to me; give me my little one!
He has not come yet.
You say he won't forgive me, because you don't know him.