“Yes,” said Alexey Alexandrovitch, and getting up, he folded his hands
and cracked his fingers. “I’ve come to bring you some money, too, for
nightingales, we know, can’t live on fairy tales,” he said. “You want it, I
expect?”
“No, I don’t … yes, I do,” she said, not looking at him, and crimsoning to
the roots of her hair. “But you’ll come back here after the races, I suppose?”
“Oh, yes!” answered Alexey Alexandrovitch. “And here’s the glory of
Peterhof, Princess Tverskaya,” he added, looking out of the window at the
elegant English carriage with the tiny seats placed extremely high. “What
elegance! Charming! Well, let us be starting too, then.”
Princess Tverskaya did not get out of her carriage, but her groom, in high
boots, a cape, and black hat, darted out at the entrance.
“I’m going; good-bye!” said Anna, and kissing her son, she went up to
Alexey Alexandrovitch and held out her hand to him. “It was ever so nice of
you to come.”
Alexey Alexandrovitch kissed her hand.
“Well, au revoir, then! You’ll come back for some tea; that’s delightful!”
she said, and went out, gay and radiant. But as soon as she no longer saw
him, she was aware of the spot on her hand that his lips had touched, and
she shuddered with repulsion.
Chapter 28
When Alexey Alexandrovitch reached the race-course, Anna was already
sitting in the pavilion beside Betsy, in that pavilion where all the highest
society had gathered. She caught sight of her husband in the distance. Two
men, her husband and her lover, were the two centers of her existence, and
unaided by her external senses she was aware of their nearness. She was
aware of her husband approaching a long way off, and she could not help
following him in the surging crowd in the midst of which he was moving.
She watched his progress towards the pavilion, saw him now responding
condescendingly to an ingratiating bow, now exchanging friendly,
nonchalant greetings with his equals, now assiduously trying to catch the
eye of some great one of this world, and taking off his big round hat that
squeezed the tips of his ears. All these ways of his she knew, and all were
hateful to her. “Nothing but ambition, nothing but the desire to get on, that’s
all there is in his soul,” she thought; “as for these lofty ideals, love of
culture, religion, they are only so many tools for getting on.”
From his glances towards the ladies’ pavilion (he was staring straight at
her, but did not distinguish his wife in the sea of muslin, ribbons, feathers,
parasols and flowers) she saw that he was looking for her, but she purposely
avoided noticing him.
“Alexey Alexandrovitch!” Princess Betsy called to him; “I’m sure you
don’t see your wife: here she is.”
He smiled his chilly smile.
“There’s so much splendor here that one’s eyes are dazzled,” he said, and
he went into the pavilion. He smiled to his wife as a man should smile on
meeting his wife after only just parting from her, and greeted the princess
and other acquaintances, giving to each what was due—that is to say,
jesting with the ladies and dealing out friendly greetings among the men.
Below, near the pavilion, was standing an adjutant-general of whom Alexey
Alexandrovitch had a high opinion, noted for his intelligence and culture.
Alexey Alexandrovitch entered into conversation with him.
There was an interval between the races, and so nothing hindered
conversation. The adjutant-general expressed his disapproval of races.
Alexey Alexandrovitch replied defending them. Anna heard his high,
measured tones, not losing one word, and every word struck her as false,
and stabbed her ears with pain.
When the three-mile steeplechase was beginning, she bent forward and
gazed with fixed eyes at Vronsky as he went up to his horse and mounted,
and at the same time she heard that loathsome, never-ceasing voice of her
husband. She was in an agony of terror for Vronsky, but a still greater agony
was the never-ceasing, as it seemed to her, stream of her husband’s shrill
voice with its familiar intonations.
“I’m a wicked woman, a lost woman,” she thought; “but I don’t like
lying, I can’t endure falsehood, while as for him (her husband) it’s the
breath of his life—falsehood. He knows all about it, he sees it all; what does
he care if he can talk so calmly? If he were to kill me, if he were to kill
Vronsky, I might respect him. No, all he wants is falsehood and propriety,”
Anna said to herself, not considering exactly what it was she wanted of her
husband, and how she would have liked to see him behave. She did not
understand either that Alexey Alexandrovitch’s peculiar loquacity that day,
so exasperating to her, was merely the expression of his inward distress and
uneasiness. As a child that has been hurt skips about, putting all his muscles
into movement to drown the pain, in the same way Alexey Alexandrovitch
needed mental exercise to drown the thoughts of his wife that in her
presence and in Vronsky’s, and with the continual iteration of his name,
would force themselves on his attention. And it was as natural for him to
talk well and cleverly, as it is natural for a child to skip about. He was
saying:
“Danger in the races of officers, of cavalry men, is an essential element
in the race. If England can point to the most brilliant feats of cavalry in
military history, it is simply owing to the fact that she has historically
developed this force both in beasts and in men. Sport has, in my opinion, a
great value, and as is always the case, we see nothing but what is most
superficial.”
“It’s not superficial,” said Princess Tverskaya. “One of the officers, they
say, has broken two ribs.”
Alexey Alexandrovitch smiled his smile, which uncovered his teeth, but
revealed nothing more.
“We’ll admit, princess, that that’s not superficial,” he said, “but internal.
But that’s not the point,” and he turned again to the general with whom he
was talking seriously; “we mustn’t forget that those who are taking part in
the race are military men, who have chosen that career, and one must allow
that every calling has its disagreeable side. It forms an integral part of the
duties of an officer. Low sports, such as prize-fighting or Spanish bull-
fights, are a sign of barbarity. But specialized trials of skill are a sign of
development.”
“No, I shan’t come another time; it’s too upsetting,” said Princess Betsy.
“Isn’t it, Anna?”
“It is upsetting, but one can’t tear oneself away,” said another lady. “If I’d
been a Roman woman I should never have missed a single circus.”
Anna said nothing, and keeping her opera-glass up, gazed always at the
same spot.
At that moment a tall general walked through the pavilion. Breaking off
what he was saying, Alexey Alexandrovitch got up hurriedly, though with
dignity, and bowed low to the general.
“You’re not racing?” the officer asked, chaffing him.
“My race is a harder one,” Alexey Alexandrovitch responded
deferentially.
And though the answer meant nothing, the general looked as though he
had heard a witty remark from a witty man, and fully relished la pointe de
la sauce.
“There are two aspects,” Alexey Alexandrovitch resumed: “those who
take part and those who look on; and love for such spectacles is an
unmistakable proof of a low degree of development in the spectator, I
admit, but….”
“Princess, bets!” sounded Stepan Arkadyevitch’s voice from below,
addressing Betsy. “Who’s your favorite?”
“Anna and I are for Kuzovlev,” replied Betsy.
“I’m for Vronsky. A pair of gloves?”
“Done!”
“But it is a pretty sight, isn’t it?”
Alexey Alexandrovitch paused while there was talking about him, but he
began again directly.
“I admit that manly sports do not….” he was continuing.
But at that moment the racers started, and all conversation ceased. Alexey
Alexandrovitch too was silent, and everyone stood up and turned towards
the stream. Alexey Alexandrovitch took no interest in the race, and so he
did not watch the racers, but fell listlessly to scanning the spectators with
his weary eyes. His eyes rested upon Anna.
Her face was white and set. She was obviously seeing nothing and no one
but one man. Her hand had convulsively clutched her fan, and she held her
breath. He looked at her and hastily turned away, scrutinizing other faces.
“But here’s this lady too, and others very much moved as well; it’s very
natural,” Alexey Alexandrovitch told himself. He tried not to look at her,
but unconsciously his eyes were drawn to her. He examined that face again,
