"I'm not going," Vronsky answered gloomily.
"Well, I must, I promised to. Good-bye, then. If you do, come
to the stalls; you can take Kruzin's stall," added Yashvin as he
"No, I'm busy."
"A wife is a care, but it's worse when she's not a wife," thought
Yashvin, as he walked out of the hotel.
Vronsky, left alone, got up from his chair and began pacing up
and down the room.
"And what's today? The fourth night.... Yegor and his wife are
there, and my mother, most likely. Of course all Petersburg's
there. Now she's gone in, taken off her cloak and come into the
light. Tushkevitch, Yashvin, Princess Varvara," he pictured them
to himself.... "What about me? Either that I'm frightened or
have given up to Tushkevitch the right to protect her? From
every point of view--stupid, stupid!... And why is she putting
me in such a position?" he said with a gesture of despair.
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."