woman.  Now I’m my real self, all myself.  I’m dying now, I know I shall die, ask him.  Even now I feel—­see here, the weights on my feet, on my hands, on my fingers.  My fingers—­see how huge they are!  But this will soon all be over....  Only one thing I want:  forgive me, forgive me quite.  I’m terrible, but my nurse used to tell me; the holy martyr—­what was her name?  She was worse.  And I’ll go to Rome; there’s a wilderness, and there I shall be no trouble to any one, only I’ll take Seryozha and the little one....  No, you can’t forgive me!  I know, it can’t be forgiven!  No, no, go away, you’re too good!” She held his hand in one burning hand, while she pushed him away with the other.

The nervous agitation of Alexey Alexandrovitch kept increasing, and had by now reached such a point that he ceased to struggle with it.  He suddenly felt that what he had regarded as nervous agitation was on the contrary a blissful spiritual condition that gave him all at once a new happiness he had never known.  He did not think that the Christian law that he had been all his life trying to follow, enjoined on him to forgive and love his enemies; but a glad feeling of love and forgiveness for his enemies filled his heart.  He knelt down, and laying his head in the curve of her arm, which burned him as with fire through the sleeve, he sobbed like a little child.  She put her arm around his head, moved towards him, and with defiant pride lifted up her eyes.

“That is he.  I knew him!  Now, forgive me, everyone, forgive me!...  They’ve come again; why don’t they go away?...  Oh, take these cloaks off me!”

The doctor unloosed her hands, carefully laying her on the pillow, and covered her up to the shoulders.  She lay back submissively, and looked before her with beaming eyes.

“Remember one thing, that I needed nothing but forgiveness, and I want nothing more....  Why doesn’t he come?” she said, turning to the door towards Vronsky.  “Do come, do come!  Give him your hand.”

Vronsky came to the side of the bed, and seeing Anna, again hid his face in his hands.

“Uncover your face—­look at him!  He’s a saint,” she said.  “Oh! uncover your face, do uncover it!” she said angrily.  “Alexey Alexandrovitch, do uncover his face!  I want to see him.”

Alexey Alexandrovitch took Vronsky’s hands and drew them away from his face, which was awful with the expression of agony and shame upon it.

“Give him your hand.  Forgive him.”

Alexey Alexandrovitch gave him his hand, not attempting to restrain the tears that streamed from his eyes.

“Thank God, thank God!” she said, “now everything is ready.  Only to stretch my legs a little.  There, that’s capital.  How badly these flowers are done—­not a bit like a violet,” she said, pointing to the hangings.  “My God, my God! when will it end?  Give me some morphine.  Doctor, give me some morphine!  Oh, my God, my God!”