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but that did not prevent him from being glad he had successfully
brought the matter to a conclusion, for he felt certain Alexey
Alexandrovitch would not go back on his words. To this satisfaction
was added the fact that an idea had just struck him for a riddle turning
on his successful achievement, that when the affair was over he would
ask his wife and most intimate friends. He put this riddle into two or
three different ways. “But I’ll work it out better than that,” he said to
himself with a smile.
Chapter 23.
Vronsky’s wound had been a dangerous one, though it did not
touch the heart, and for several days he had lain between life and
death. The first time he was able to speak, Varya, his brother’s wife,
was alone in the room.
“Varya,” he said, looking sternly at her, “I shot myself by accident.
And please never speak of it, and tell everyone so. Or else it’s too
ridiculous.”
Without answering his words, Varya bent over him, and with a
delighted smile gazed into his face. His eyes were clear, not feverish;
but their expression was stern.
“Thank God!” she said. “You’re not in pain?”
“A little here.” He pointed to his breast.
“Then let me change your bandages.”
In silence, stiffening his broad jaws, he looked at her while she
bandaged him up. When she had finished he said:
“I’m not delirious. Please manage that there may be no talk of my
having shot myself on purpose.”
“No one does say so. Only I hope you won’t shoot yourself by
accident any more,” she said, with a questioning smile.
“Of course I won’t, but it would have been better...”
And he smiled gloomily.