Anna Karenina - Part 5

With that gesture he knocked against the table, on which there

was standing the seltzer water and the decanter of brandy, and

almost upset it. He tried to catch it, let it slip, and angrily

kicked the table over and rang.

"If you care to be in my service," he said to the valet who came

in, "you had better remember your duties. This shouldn't be

here. You ought to have cleared away."

The valet, conscious of his own innocence, would have defended

himself, but glancing at his master, he saw from his face that

the only thing to do was to be silent, and hurriedly threading

his way in and out, dropped down on the carpet and began

gathering up the whole and broken glasses and bottles.

"That's not your duty; send the waiter to clear away, and get my

dress coat out."

Vronsky went into the theater at half-past eight. The

performance was in full swing. The little old box-keeper,

recognizing Vronsky as he helped him off with his fur coat,

called him "Your Excellency," and suggested he should not take a

number but should simply call Fyodor. In the brightly lighted

corridor there was no one but the box-opener and two attendants

with fur cloaks on their arms listening at the doors. Through

the closed doors came the sounds of the discreet _staccato_

accompaniment of the orchestra, and a single female voice

rendering distinctly a musical phrase. The door opened to let

the box-opener slip through, and the phrase drawing to the end

reached Vronsky's hearing clearly. But the doors were closed

again at once, and Vronsky did not hear the end of the phrase and

the cadence of the accompaniment, though he knew from the thunder

of applause that it was over. When he entered the hall,

brilliantly lighted with chandeliers and gas jets, the noise was

still going on. On the stage the singer, bowing and smiling,

with bare shoulders flashing with diamonds, was, with the help of

the tenor who had given her his arm, gathering up the bouquets

that were flying awkwardly over the footlights. Then she went up

to a gentleman with glossy pomaded hair parted down the center,

who was stretching across the footlights holding out something to

her, and all the public in the stalls as well as in the boxes was

in excitement, craning forward, shouting and clapping. The

conductor in his high chair assisted in passing the offering, and

straightened his white tie. Vronsky walked into the middle of

the stalls, and, standing still, began looking about him. That

day less than ever was his attention turned upon the familiar,

habitual surroundings, the stage, the noise, all the familiar,

uninteresting, particolored herd of spectators in the packed

theater.