bare shoulders and glittering with diamonds, was bowing and smiling, and, with the assistance of the tenor, who gave her his hand, was bending forward to receive the bouquets that were thrust awkwardly at her over the footlights, and then she went toward a gentleman whose hair, shining with pomade, was parted in the middle, and who reached out his long arms to hand her some article. The whole audience — those in the boxes and those in the parquet — was wildly excited and leaning forward, shouting and clapping. The Kapellmeister, on his elevated stand, helped pass it along, and straightened his white necktie.
Vronsky went down to the middle of the parquet, and, pausing, looked through the audience. He paid less attention than ever to the familiar stage-setting, to the stage, to the noise, to all that well-known, variegated, and uninteresting throng of spectators that was packed and crowded into the theater.
There were the same ladies in the boxes, with the same officers behind them, the same gayly dressed women, the same uniforms, and the same dress-coats; in the gallery the same disorderly crowd; and in all this closely packed house, in the boxes and in the front seats, were some forty genuine men and women! And Vronsky immediately turned his attention to this oasis, and occupied himself with it exclusively.
The act was just over as Vronsky went toward the first row of seats, and stopped near the railing beside Serpukhovskoï, who, bending his knee and rapping against the rail with his heel, had seen him at a distance, and beckoned to him with a smile.
Vronsky had not yet seen Anna, and purposely refrained from looking for her; but from the direction in which people were gazing, he knew where she was. He glanced round furtively but did not search for her. Expecting something even worse, he looked to see if Alekseï Aleksandrovitch were there; to his joy the latter was not at the theater that evening.
"How unmartial you look," said Serpukhovskoï; "one would take you for a diplomat — an artist."
