It was the portrait of Anna, painted in Italy by Mihailov.

While Stepan Arkadyevitch went behind the _treillage_, and the man's voice which had been speaking paused, Levin gazed at the portrait, which stood out from the frame in the brilliant light thrown on it, and he could not tear himself away from it.

He positively forgot where he was, and not even hearing what was said, he could not take his eyes off the marvelous portrait.

It was not a picture, but a living, charming woman, with black curling hair, with bare arms and shoulders, with a pensive smile on the lips, covered with soft down; triumphantly and softly she looked at him with eyes that baffled him.

She was not living only because she was more beautiful than a living woman can be.