Anna Karenina (Dole)/Part Two/Chapter 29
CHAPTER XXIX
All were loudly expressing their dissatisfaction, and the phrase was going the rounds, "Now only the lions are left in the arena;" and when Vronsky fell, horror was felt by all, and Anna groaned in dismay. In this there was nothing extraordinary. But, from thence on, a change which was positively improper had come over her face, and she entirely lost her presence of mind. She tried to escape, like a bird caught in a snare. Thus she struggled to arise, and to get away; and then she cried to Betsy:—
"Come, let us go, let us go!"
But Betsy did not hear her. She was leaning over, engaged in lively conversation with a general who had just entered the pavilion.
Alekseï Aleksandrovitch hastened to his wife, and courteously offered her his arm.
"Come, if it is your wish to go," said he, in French; but Anna was listening eagerly to what the general said, and paid no attention to her husband.
"He has broken his leg, they say; but this is not at all likely," said the general.
Anna did not look at her husband; but, taking her glass, she gazed at the place where Vronsky had fallen. It was so distant, and the crowd was so dense, that she could not make anything out of it. She dropped her binocle, and started to go; but at that instant an officer came galloping up to make some report to the emperor. Anna leaned forward, and listened.
"Stiva! Stiva!" she cried to her brother.
He did not hear her.
She again made an effort to leave the pavilion.
"I again offer you my arm, if you wish to go," repeated Alekseï Aleksandrovitch, touching her hand.
Anna drew back from him with aversion, and replied without looking at him:—
"No, no; leave me; I am going to stay."
She now saw an officer riding at full speed across the race-course from the place of the accident to the pavilion. Betsy beckoned to him with her handkerchief; the officer brought the news that the rider was uninjured but the horse had broken her back.
When she heard this, Anna quickly sat down, and hid her face behind her fan. Alekseï Aleksandrovitch noticed, not only that she was weeping, but that she could not keep back the tears or even control the sobs that heaved her bosom. He stepped in front of her to shield her from the public gaze and give her a chance to regain her self-command.
"For the third time I offer you my arm," said he, turning to her at the end of a few moments.
Anna looked at him, not knowing what to say. The Princess Betsy came to her aid.
"No, Alekseï Aleksandrovitch. I brought Anna, and I will be responsible for bringing her home," said Betsy, interfering.
"Excuse me, princess," he replied, politely smiling, and looking her full in the face; "but I see that she is not well, and I wish her to go with me."
Anna looked round in terror, and, rising hastily, took her husband's arm.
"I will send to inquire for him, and let you know," whispered Betsy.
As Alekseï Aleksandrovitch left the pavilion with his wife, he spoke in his ordinary manner to all whom he met, and Anna was forced to listen and to reply as usual; but she was not herself, and as in a dream she passed along on her husband's arm.
"Is he killed, or not? Can it be true? Will he come? Shall I see him to-day?" she asked herself.
In silence she got into Alekseï Aleksandrovitch's carriage, and she sat in silence as they left the throng of vehicles. In spite of all he had seen, Alekseï Aleksandrovitch did not allow himself to think of his wife's present attitude. He saw only the external signs. He saw that her deportment had been improper, and he felt obliged to speak to her about it. But it was very difficult not to say more,—to say only that. He opened his mouth to tell her how improperly she had behaved; but, in spite of himself, he said something absolutely different.
"How strange that we all like to see these cruel spectacles! I notice...."
"What? I did not understand you," said Anna, scornfully.
He was wounded, and instantly began to say what was on his mind.
"I am obliged to tell you ...." he began.
"Now," thought Anna, "comes the explanation;" and a terrible feeling came over her.
"I am obliged to tell you that your conduct to-day has been extremely improper," said he, in French.
"Wherein has my conduct been improper?" she demanded angrily, raising her head quickly, and looking him straight in the eyes, no longer hiding her feelings under a mask of gayety, but putting on a bold front, under which, with difficulty, she hid her fears.
"Be careful," said he, pointing to the open window behind the coachman's back.
He leaned forward and raised the pane.
"What impropriety did you remark?" she asked again.
"The despair which you took no pains to conceal when one of the riders was thrown."
He awaited her answer; but she said nothing, and looked straight ahead.
"I have already requested you so to behave when in society that evil tongues cannot find anything to say against you. There was a time when I spoke of your inner feelings; I now say nothing about them. Now I speak only of outward appearances. You have behaved improperly, and I would ask you not to let this happen again."
She did not hear half of his words; she felt overwhelmed with fear; and she thought only of Vronsky, and whether he was killed. Was it he who was meant when they said the rider was safe but the horse had broken her back?
When Alekseï Aleksandrovitch ceased speaking, she looked at him with an ironical smile, and answered not a word, because she had not noticed what he said. At first he had spoken boldly; but as he saw clearly what he was speaking about, the terror which possessed her seized him also. He noticed that smile of hers, and it led him into a strange mistake.
"She is amused at my suspicions! She is going to tell me now what she once before said, that there is no foundation for them, that this is absurd."
Now when the discovery of the whole thing hung over him, he desired nothing so much as that she should answer derisively as she had done before, that his suspicions were ridiculous and had no foundation. What he now knew was so terrible to him that he was ready to believe anything that she might say. But the expression of her gloomy and frightened face now allowed him no further chance of falsehood.
"Possibly I am mistaken," said he; "in that case, I beg you to forgive me."
"No, you are not mistaken," she replied, with measured words, casting a look of despair on her husband's icy face. "You are not mistaken; I was in despair, and I could not help being. I hear you, but I am thinking only of him. I love him, I am his mistress. I cannot endure you, I fear you, I hate you!.... Do with me what you please!"
And, throwing herself into a corner of the carriage, she covered her face with her hands, and burst into tears.
Alekseï Aleksandrovitch did not move, or change the direction of his eyes; but his whole face suddenly assumed the solemn rigidity of a corpse, and this expression remained unchanged throughout the drive to the datcha. As they reached the house, he turned his head to her still with the same expression.
"So! but I insist on the preservation of appearances until"—and here his voice trembled—"I decide on the measures which I shall take to save my honor and communicate them to you."
He stepped out of the carriage, and assisted Anna out. Then, in presence of the domestics, he shook hands with her, reentered the carriage, and drove back to Petersburg.
He had just gone, when a lackey from Betsy brought a note to Anna:—
"I sent to Alekseï Vronsky to learn how he was. He writes me that he is safe and sound, but in despair."
"Then he will come," she thought. "How well I did to tell him all!"
She looked at her watch; scarcely three hours had passed since she saw him, but the memory of their interview made her heart hot within her.
"Bozhe moï! how light it is! It is terrible! but I love to see his face, and I love this fantastic light .... My husband! oh! yes! ....well! thank God it is all over with him!"