"I was just saying..."
"How disgusting you are, you men! How is it you can't understand
that a woman can never forget that," she said, getting more and
more angry, and so letting him see the cause of her irritation,
"especially a woman who cannot know your life? What do I know?
What have I ever known?" she said; "what you tell me. And how
do I know whether you tell me the truth?..."
"Anna, you hurt me. Don't you trust me? Haven't I told you that
I haven't a thought I wouldn't lay bare to you?"
"Yes, yes," she said, evidently trying to suppress her jealous
thoughts. "But if only you knew how wretched I am! I believe
you, I believe you.... What were you saying?"
But he could not at once recall what he had been going to say.
These fits of jealousy, which of late had been more and more
frequent with her, horrified him, and however much he tried to
disguise the fact, made him feel cold to her, although he knew
the cause of her jealousy was her love for him. How often he had
told himself that her love was happiness; and now she loved him
as a woman can love when love has outweighed for her all the good
things of life--and he was much further from happiness than when
he had followed her from Moscow. Then he had thought himself
unhappy, but happiness was before him; now he felt that the best
happiness was already left behind. She was utterly unlike what
she had been when he first saw her. Both morally and physically
she had changed for the worse. She had broadened out all over,
and in her face at the time when she was speaking of the actress
there was an evil expression of hatred that distorted it. He
looked at her as a man looks at a faded flower he has gathered,
with difficulty recognizing in it the beauty for which he picked
and ruined it. And in spite of this he felt that then, when his
love was stronger, he could, if he had greatly wished it, have
torn that love out of his heart; but now, when as at that moment
it seemed to him he felt no love for her, he knew that what bound
him to her could not be broken.