Anna Karenina by graf Leo Tolstoy
Chapter 63
1465 words | Chapter 63
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, trying not to read what was so plainly written on it, and
against his own will, with horror read on it what he did not want to
know.
The first fall—Kuzovlev’s, at the stream—agitated everyone, but Alexey
Alexandrovitch saw distinctly on Anna’s pale, triumphant face that the
man she was watching had not fallen. When, after Mahotin and Vronsky
had cleared the worst barrier, the next officer had been thrown
straight on his head at it and fatally injured, and a shudder of horror
passed over the whole public, Alexey Alexandrovitch saw that Anna did
not even notice it, and had some difficulty in realizing what they were
talking of about her. But more and more often, and with greater
persistence, he watched her. Anna, wholly engrossed as she was with the
race, became aware of her husband’s cold eyes fixed upon her from one
side.
She glanced round for an instant, looked inquiringly at him, and with a
slight frown turned away again.
“Ah, I don’t care!” she seemed to say to him, and she did not once
glance at him again.
The race was an unlucky one, and of the seventeen officers who rode in
it more than half were thrown and hurt. Towards the end of the race
everyone was in a state of agitation, which was intensified by the fact
that the Tsar was displeased.
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