Anna Karenina

gafea Mihalovna went out on tiptoe; the nurse let down the blind,
chased a fly out from under the muslin canopy of the crib, and a
bumblebee struggling on the window-frame, and sat down waving a faded
branch of birch over the mother and the baby.

“How hot it is! if God would send a drop of rain,” she said.

“Yes, yes, sh—sh—sh——” was all Kitty answered, rocking a little, and
tenderly squeezing the plump little arm, with rolls of fat at the
wrist, which Mitya still waved feebly as he opened and shut his eyes.
That hand worried Kitty; she longed to kiss the little hand, but was
afraid to for fear of waking the baby. At last the little hand ceased
waving, and the eyes closed. Only from time to time, as he went on
sucking, the baby raised his long, curly eyelashes and peeped at his
mother with wet eyes, that looked black in the twilight. The nurse had
left off fanning, and was dozing. From above came the peals of the old
prince’s voice, and the chuckle of Katavasov.

“They have got into talk without me,” thought Kitty, “but still it’s
vexing that Kostya’s out. He’s sure to have gone to the bee-house
again. Though it’s a pity he’s there so often, still I’m glad. It
distracts his mind. He’s become altogether happier and better now than
in the spring. He used to be so gloomy and worried that I felt
frightened for him. And how absurd he is!” she whispered, smiling.

She knew what worried her husband. It was his unbelief. Although, if
she had been asked whether she supposed that in the future life, if he
did not believe, he would be damned, she would have had to admit that
he would be damned, his unbelief did not cause her unhappiness. And
she, confessing that for an unbeliever there can be no salvation, and
loving her husband’s soul more than anything in the world, thought with
a smile of his unbelief, and told herself that he was absurd.

“What does he keep reading philosophy of some sort for all this year?”
she wondered. “If it’s all written in those books, he can understand
them. If it’s all wrong, why does he read them? He says himself that he
would like to believe. Then why is it he doesn’t believe? Surely from
his thinking so much? And he thinks so much from being solitary. He’s
always alone, alone. He can’t talk about it all to us. I fancy he’ll be
glad of these visitors, especially Katavasov. He likes discussions with
them,” she thought, and passed instantly to the consideration of where
it would be more convenient to put Katavasov, to sleep alone or to
share Sergey Ivanovitch’s room. And then an idea suddenly struck her,
which made her shudder and even disturb Mitya, who glanced severely at
her. “I do believe the laundress hasn’t sent the washing yet, and all
the best sheets are in use. If I don’t see to it, Agafea Mihalovna will
give Sergey Ivanovitch the wrong sheets,” and at the very idea of this
the blood rushed to Kitty’s face.

“Yes, I will arrange it,” she decided, and going back to her former
thoughts, she remembered that some spiritual question of importance had
been interrupted, and she began to recall what. “Yes, Kostya, an
unbeliever,” she thought again with a smile.

“Well, an unbeliever then! Better let him always be one than like
Madame Stahl, or what I tried to be in those days abroad. No, he won’t
ever sham anything.”

And a recent instance of his goodness rose vividly to her mind. A
fortnight ago a penitent letter had come from Stepan Arkadyevitch to
Dolly. He besought her to save his honor, to sell her estate to pay his
debts. Dolly was in despair, she detested her husband, despised him,
pitied him, resolved on a separation, resolved to refuse, but ended by
agreeing to sell part of her property. After that, with an
irrepressible smile of tenderness, Kitty recalled her husband’s
shamefaced embarrassment, his repeated awkward efforts to approach the
subject, and how at last, having thought of the one means of helping
Dolly without wounding her pride, he had suggested to Kitty—what had
not occurred to her before—that she should give up her share of the
property.

“He an unbeliever indeed! With his heart, his dread of offending
anyone, even a child! Everything for others, nothing for himself.
Sergey Ivanovitch simply considers it as Kostya’s duty to be his
steward. And it’s the same with his sister. Now Dolly and her children
are under his guardianship; all these peasants who come to him every
day, as though he were bound to be at their service.”

“Yes, only be like your father, only like him,” she said, handing Mitya
over to the nurse, and putting her lips to his cheek.