And death rose clearly and vividly before her mind as the sole means of bringing back love for her in his heart, of punishing him and of gaining the victory in that strife which the evil spirit in possession of her heart was waging with him.

Now nothing mattered:  going or not going to Vozdvizhenskoe, getting or not getting a divorce from her husband—­all that did not matter.  The one thing that mattered was punishing him.  When she poured herself out her usual dose of opium, and thought that she had only to drink off the whole bottle to die, it seemed to her so simple and easy, that she began musing with enjoyment on how he would suffer, and repent and love her memory when it would be too late.  She lay in bed with open eyes, by the light of a single burned-down candle, gazing at the carved cornice of the ceiling and at the shadow of the screen that covered part of it, while she vividly pictured to herself how he would feel when she would be no more, when she would be only a memory to him.  “How could I say such cruel things to her?” he would say.  “How could I go out of the room without saying anything to her?  But now she is no more.  She has gone away from us forever.  She is....”  Suddenly the shadow of the screen wavered, pounced on the whole cornice, the whole ceiling; other shadows from the other side swooped to meet it, for an instant the shadows flitted back, but then with fresh swiftness they darted forward, wavered, commingled, and all was darkness.  “Death!” she thought.  And such horror came upon her that for a long while she could not realize where she was, and for a long while her trembling hands could not find the matches and light another candle, instead of the one that had burned down and gone out.  “No, anything—­only to live!  Why, I love him!  Why, he loves me!  This has been before and will pass,” she said, feeling that tears of joy at the return to life were trickling down her cheeks.  And to escape from her panic she went hurriedly to his room.

He was asleep there, and sleeping soundly.  She went up to him, and holding the light above his face, she gazed a long while at him.  Now when he was asleep, she loved him so that at the sight of him she could not keep back tears of tenderness.  But she knew that if he waked up he would look at her with cold eyes, convinced that he was right, and that before telling him of her love, she would have to prove to him that he had been wrong in his treatment of her.  Without waking him, she went back, and after a second dose of opium she fell towards morning into a heavy, incomplete sleep, during which she never quite lost consciousness.

In the morning she was waked by a horrible nightmare, which had recurred several times in her dreams, even before her connection with Vronsky.  A little old man with unkempt beard was doing something bent down over some iron, muttering meaningless French words, and she, as she always did in this nightmare (it was what made the horror of it), felt that this peasant was taking no notice of her, but was doing something horrible with the iron—­ over her.  And she waked up in a cold sweat.