Anna Karenina (Dole)/Part Five/Chapter 33
CHAPTER XXXIII
For the first time in his life Vronsky felt toward Anna a sensation of vexation bordering on anger, on account of her intentional misunderstanding of her position. This feeling was intensified by the fact that he could not explain the reason of his vexation. If he had frankly said what was in his mind, he would have said:—
"To appear at the opera in such a toilet, with a notorious person like the princess, is equivalent to throwing down the gauntlet to public opinion; to confessing yourself a lost woman, and, consequently, renouncing all hope of ever going into society again."
He could not say that to her.
"Why did she not understand it? What has happened to her." he asked himself.
He felt at one and the same time a lessened esteem for Anna's character, and a greater sense of her beauty.
With a dark frown he went back to his room, and sat down with Yashvin, who, with his long legs stretched out on a chair, was drinking cognac and seltzer water. Vronsky ordered the same for himself.
"You spoke of Lanskof's Moguchi? He is a fine horse, and I advise you to buy him," began Yashvin, glancing at his comrade's solemn face. "His crupper is tapering, but what legs! and what a head! You couldn't do better."
"I think I shall take him," replied Vronsky.
The talk about horses occupied him, but not for a moment was the thought of Anna absent from his mind, and he involuntarily listened for the sound of steps in the corridor, and kept looking at the clock on the mantel.
"Anna Arkadyevna left word that she has gone to the theater," a servant announced.
Yashvin poured out another little glass of cognac and seltzer, drank it, and rose, buttoning up his coat.
"Well, shall we go?" said he, half smiling beneath his long mustaches, and showing that he understood the cause of Vronsky's vexation, but did not attach much importance to it.
"I am not going," replied Vronsky, gloomily.
"I promised, so I must go; well—da svidanya! If you should change your mind, take Krasinsky's seat, which will be unoccupied," he added, as he went out.
"No; I have some work to do."
"A man has trials with a wife, but with a not-wife it is even worse," thought Yashvin as he left the hotel.
When Vronsky was alone, he rose, and began to walk up and down the room.
"Yes! To-night? The fourth subscription night.... My brother Yegor will be there with his wife, and with my mother, probably; in fact, all Petersburg will be there! Now she is going in, and is taking off her shuba, and there she is in the light! Tushkievitch, Yashvin, the Princess Varvara!" he pictured the scene to himself. "What am I to do? am I afraid? or have I given Tushkievitch the right to protect her? However you may look at it, it is stupid, it is stupid! .... Why should she place me in this position?" he said, with a gesture of despair.
This movement jostled the stand on which stood the seltzer water and the decanter with cognac, and nearly knocked it over; in trying to rescue it, he upset it entirely; he rang, and gave a kick to the table.
"If you want to remain in my service," said he to his valet who appeared, "then tend to your business. Don't let this happen again; why didn't you take these things away?"
The valet, knowing his innocence, wished to justify himself: but by one glance at his barin's face he realized that it was best for him to be silent; and, making a hasty excuse, he got down on the floor to pick up the broken glasses and water-bottles.
"That is not your business; call a waiter, and get my dress-coat."
Vronsky entered the theater at half-past nine. The performance was in full swing. The Kapelldiener—a little old man—took his fur-lined shuba, and, recognizing him, called him "your excellency," and assured him that he needed not to take a number, but that all he had to do was to call for Feodor.
There was no one in the lighted lobby except the Kapelldiener and two valets with fur garments on their arms, listening at the door. The sound of the orchestra playing staccato could be heard, carefully accompanying a woman's voice which was admirably rendering a musical phrase. The door opened and another Kapelldiener came tiptoeing out, and the phrase, as it was ending, came distinctly to Vronsky's ear. But instantly the door closed again and he could not hear the ending of the phrase or the cadenza; but from the applause that followed he knew that the aria was finished.
The plaudits still continued as he went into the auditorium, brilliantly lighted with chandeliers and bronze gas-fixtures. On the stage, the prima donna, with bare shoulders and glittering with diamonds, was bowing and smiling, and, with the assistance of the tenor, who gave her his hand, was bending forward to receive the bouquets that were thrust awkwardly at her over the footlights, and then she went toward a gentleman whose hair, shining with pomade, was parted in the middle, and who reached out his long arms to hand her some article. The whole audience—those in the boxes and those in the parquet—was wildly excited and leaning forward, shouting and clapping. The Kapellmeister, on his elevated stand, helped pass it along, and straightened his white necktie.
Vronsky went down to the middle of the parquet, and, pausing, looked through the audience. He paid less attention than ever to the familiar stage-setting, to the stage, to the noise, to all that well-known, variegated, and uninteresting throng of spectators that was packed and crowded into the theater.
There were the same ladies in the boxes, with the same officers behind them, the same gayly dressed women, the same uniforms, and the same dress-coats; in the gallery the same disorderly crowd; and in all this closely packed house, in the boxes and in the front seats, were some forty genuine men and women! And Vronsky immediately turned his attention to this oasis, and occupied himself with it exclusively.
The act was just over as Vronsky went toward the first row of seats, and stopped near the railing beside Serpukhovskoï, who, bending his knee and rapping against the rail with his heel, had seen him at a distance, and beckoned to him with a smile.
Vronsky had not yet seen Anna, and purposely refrained from looking for her; but from the direction in which people were gazing, he knew where she was. He glanced round furtively but did not search for her. Expecting something even worse, he looked to see if Alekseï Aleksandrovitch were there; to his joy the latter was not at the theater that evening.
"How unmartial you look," said Serpukhovskoï; "one would take you for a diplomat—an artist."
"Yes; on my return home I put on citizen's dress," replied Vronsky, slowly taking out his opera-glasses.
"In this respect, I confess I envy you. When I return from abroad and put these on," said he, touching his epaulets, "I mourn for my liberty."
Serpukhovskoï had long since given up trying to push Vronsky along in his military career, but he continued to have a warm affection for him, and he now seemed especially friendly toward him.
"It is too bad that you lost the first act."
Vronsky, while listening with one ear, examined the boxes and the first tier of seats, with his opera-glass; suddenly Anna's head came into view, proud, and strikingly beautiful, in its frame of laces, next a lady in a turban, and a bald-headed old man, who blinked as he gazed through his opera-glass. Anna was in the fifth box, not more than twenty steps from him; she was seated in the front of the box, turning slightly away, and was talking with Yashvin. The pose of her head, her neck, her beautiful, broad shoulders, the radiance of her eyes and face,—all reminded him of her as she had looked that evening at the ball in Moscow.
But her beauty inspired him with entirely different sentiment; there was no longer anything mysterious in his feeling for her. And so, although her beauty was more extraordinary than ever, and fascinated him, at the same time it was now offensive to him. She did not look in his direction, but he felt that she had already seen him.
When Vronsky again directed his opera-glass toward the box, he saw the Princess Varvara, very red in the face, was laughing unnaturally, and kept looking at the next box; Anna, striking her closed fan on the red vel-vet, was looking away, evidently not seeing and not intending to see what was going on in the next box. Yashvin's face wore the same expression as when he lost at cards; he drew his left mustache more and more into his mouth, frowned, and was looking out of the corner of his eye into the same box.
In this box were the Kartasofs. Vronsky knew them, and he knew that Anna, too, had been on friendly terms with them; Madame Kartasof, a little, thin woman, was standing with her back to Anna, and putting on an opera-cloak, which her husband handed to her; her face was pale and angry; and she was saying something with great excitement. Kartasof, a stout, bald-headed man, kept looking at Anna, and trying to calm his wife.
When Madame Kartasof left the box, her husband lingered, trying to catch Anna's eye, and evidently desirous of bowing to her; but apparently she purposely avoided noticing him, and leaned back to speak to Yashvin, whose shaven head was bent toward her. Kartasof went out without having bowed, and the box was left empty.
Vronsky did not understand what had just passed between the Kartasofs and Anna, but he felt perfectly sure that something mortifying had happened to Anna; by the expression of her face he saw that she was summoning all her strength to keep up her part to the end, and to appear perfectly calm. And this semblance of external calm was put on to perfection. Those who knew nothing of her history and her circle, who had not heard her old friends' expressions of indignation at her appearing in this way, in all the splendor of her beauty and of her toilet, would have admired her serenity and beauty, and never have suspected that this woman was enduring the same feelings of shame as a criminal experiences at the pillory.
Knowing that something had taken place, but not knowing exactly what, Vronsky felt a sense of deep anxiety, and, hoping to learn something about the matter, went to his brother's box. He intentionally crossed the parquet, on the side opposite to Anna's box, and, as he went, ran across his former regimental commander, who was talking with two of his acquaintances. Vronsky heard the Karenins' name spoken, and noticed that the regimental commander hastened to call to him aloud, while he gave his friends a significant look.
"Ah! Vronsky. When shall we see you again in the regiment? We shan't let you off without a banquet. You are ours, every inch of you," said the regimental commander.
"I shan't have the time now. I am awfully sorry, another time," replied Vronsky, going rapidly up the steps which led to his brother's box.
The old countess, his mother, with her little steel-colored curls, was in the box. Varia and the young Princess Sorokin were walking together in the lobby of the belle-etage. As soon as she saw her brother-in-law, Varia went back to her mother with her companion, and then, taking Vronsky's arm, immediately began to speak with him about the subject which concerned him. She showed more excitement than he had ever seen in her.
"I think it is dastardly and vile; Madame Kartasof had no right to do so. Madame Karenin ...." she began.
"But what is the matter? I don't know what you mean."
"What? you have n't heard anything about it?"
"You can well understand that I should be the last person to hear anything about it."
"Is there a more wicked creature in the world than this Madame Kartasof!"
"But what did she do?"
"My husband told me about it .... she insulted Madame Karenin. Her husband began to speak across from his box to Madame Karenin, and Madame Kartasof made a scene about it. They say she said something very offensive in a loud voice, and went out."
"Count, your maman is calling you," said the young Princess Sorokin, opening the door of the box.
"I have been waiting for you all this time," said his mother to him, with a sarcastic smile; "we never see anything of you now."
The son saw that she could not conceal a smile of satisfaction.
"Good evening, maman. I was coming to see you," he replied coolly.
"What, I hope you are not going faire la cour a Madame Karénine," she added, when the young Princess Sorokina was out of hearing; "elle fait sensation. On oublie la Patti pour elle."
"Maman, I have begged you not to speak to me about her," he replied gloomily.
"I only say what everybody is saying."
Vronsky did not reply; and, after exchanging a few words with the young princess, he went out. He met his brother at the door.
"Ah, Alekseï!" said his brother, "how abominable! She is a fool, nothing more I was just wishing to go to see Madame Karenin. Let us go together."
Vronsky did not heed him; he ran hastily down the steps, feeling that he ought to do something, but knew not what.
He was stirred with anger, because Anna had placed them both in such a false position, and at the same time he felt deep pity for her suffering.
He went down into the parquet, and thence directly to Anna's loge. Stremof was leaning on the box, talking with her.
"There are no more tenors," he said; "le moule en est brisé—the mould is broken—from which they came."
Vronsky bowed to her and stopped, exchanging greetings with Stremof.
"You came late, it seems to me, and you lost the best aria," said Anna to Vronsky, looking at him scornfully, as it seemed to him.
"I am not a very good judge," he replied, looking at her severely.
"Like Prince Yashvin," she said, smiling, "who thinks Patti sings too loud."
"Thank you," she said, taking the program that Vronsky passed to her, in her little hand, incased in a long glove; and at the same moment her beautiful face quivered; she rose and went to the back of the box.
The last act had hardly begun, when Vronsky, seeing Anna's box empty, left the parquet, though he was hissed for disturbing the quiet of the theater while a cavatina was going on, and went back to the hotel.
Anna was already in her room; when Vronsky went to her she was sitting in the same toilet which she had worn at the theater. She was sitting in the first chair she had come to, near the wall, looking straight before her. When she saw Vronsky enter, she glanced at him without moving.
"Anna," he said.
"You, you are to blame for it all!" she exclaimed, rising, with tears of anger, and despair in her voice.
"I begged you, I implored you, not to go; I knew that it would be unpleasant to you." ....
"Unpleasant!" she exclaimed; "it was horrible! I shall not forget it as long as I live. She said that it was a disgrace to sit near me."
"She was a stupid woman to say such a thing; but why did you run the risk of hearing it; why did you expose yourself?"....
"I hate your calm way. You should never have driven me to this; if you loved me ...."
"Anna! what has my love to do with this?" ....
"Yes, if you loved me as I love you, if you suffered as I ...." she said, looking at him with an expression of terror.
He felt sorry for her, and yet he was vexed with her. He protested his love, because he saw that it was the only way to calm her; and he refrained from reproaching her, but in his heart he reproached her.
And his expressions of love, which seemed to him so banal that he was ashamed of himself for repeating them, she drank in, and gradually became herself again.
Two days later they left for the country, completely reconciled.