第 二十三 章 · 第23章

Vronsky and Kitty waltzed several times round the room. After the first

waltz Kitty went to her mother, and she had hardly time to say a few

words to Countess Nordston when Vronsky came up again for the first

quadrille. During the quadrille nothing of any significance was said:

there was disjointed talk between them of the Korsunskys, husband and

wife, whom he described very amusingly, as delightful children at

forty, and of the future town theater; and only once the conversation

touched her to the quick, when he asked her about Levin, whether he was

here, and added that he liked him so much. But Kitty did not expect

much from the quadrille. She looked forward with a thrill at her heart

to the mazurka. She fancied that in the mazurka everything must be

decided. The fact that he did not during the quadrille ask her for the

mazurka did not trouble her. She felt sure she would dance the mazurka

with him as she had done at former balls, and refused five young men,

saying she was engaged for the mazurka. The whole ball up to the last

quadrille was for Kitty an enchanted vision of delightful colors,

sounds, and motions. She only sat down when she felt too tired and

begged for a rest. But as she was dancing the last quadrille with one

of the tiresome young men whom she could not refuse, she chanced to be

_vis-à-vis_ with Vronsky and Anna. She had not been near Anna again

since the beginning of the evening, and now again she saw her suddenly

quite new and surprising. She saw in her the signs of that excitement

of success she knew so well in herself; she saw that she was

intoxicated with the delighted admiration she was exciting. She knew

that feeling and knew its signs, and saw them in Anna; saw the

quivering, flashing light in her eyes, and the smile of happiness and

excitement unconsciously playing on her lips, and the deliberate grace,

precision, and lightness of her movements.

“Who?” she asked herself. “All or one?” And not assisting the harassed

young man she was dancing with in the conversation, the thread of which

he had lost and could not pick up again, she obeyed with external

liveliness the peremptory shouts of Korsunsky starting them all into

the _grand rond_, and then into the _chaîne_, and at the same time she

kept watch with a growing pang at her heart. “No, it’s not the

admiration of the crowd has intoxicated her, but the adoration of one.

And that one? can it be he?” Every time he spoke to Anna the joyous

light flashed into her eyes, and the smile of happiness curved her red

lips. She seemed to make an effort to control herself, to try not to

show these signs of delight, but they came out on her face of

themselves. “But what of him?” Kitty looked at him and was filled with

terror. What was pictured so clearly to Kitty in the mirror of Anna’s

face she saw in him. What had become of his always self-possessed

resolute manner, and the carelessly serene expression of his face? Now

every time he turned to her, he bent his head, as though he would have

fallen at her feet, and in his eyes there was nothing but humble

submission and dread. “I would not offend you,” his eyes seemed every

time to be saying, “but I want to save myself, and I don’t know how.”

On his face was a look such as Kitty had never seen before.

They were speaking of common acquaintances, keeping up the most trivial

conversation, but to Kitty it seemed that every word they said was

determining their fate and hers. And strange it was that they were

actually talking of how absurd Ivan Ivanovitch was with his French, and

how the Eletsky girl might have made a better match, yet these words

had all the while consequence for them, and they were feeling just as

Kitty did. The whole ball, the whole world, everything seemed lost in

fog in Kitty’s soul. Nothing but the stern discipline of her

bringing-up supported her and forced her to do what was expected of

her, that is, to dance, to answer questions, to talk, even to smile.

But before the mazurka, when they were beginning to rearrange the

chairs and a few couples moved out of the smaller rooms into the big

room, a moment of despair and horror came for Kitty. She had refused

five partners, and now she was not dancing the mazurka. She had not

even a hope of being asked for it, because she was so successful in

society that the idea would never occur to anyone that she had remained

disengaged till now. She would have to tell her mother she felt ill and

go home, but she had not the strength to do this. She felt crushed. She

went to the furthest end of the little drawing-room and sank into a low

chair. Her light, transparent skirts rose like a cloud about her

slender waist; one bare, thin, soft, girlish arm, hanging listlessly,

was lost in the folds of her pink tunic; in the other she held her fan,

and with rapid, short strokes fanned her burning face. But while she

looked like a butterfly, clinging to a blade of grass, and just about

to open its rainbow wings for fresh flight, her heart ached with a

horrible despair.

“But perhaps I am wrong, perhaps it was not so?” And again she recalled

all she had seen.

“Kitty, what is it?” said Countess Nordston, stepping noiselessly over

the carpet towards her. “I don’t understand it.”

Kitty’s lower lip began to quiver; she got up quickly.

“Kitty, you’re not dancing the mazurka?”

“No, no,” said Kitty in a voice shaking with tears.

“He asked her for the mazurka before me,” said Countess Nordston,

knowing Kitty would understand who were “he” and “her.” “She said:

‘Why, aren’t you going to dance it with Princess Shtcherbatskaya?’”

“Oh, I don’t care!” answered Kitty.

No one but she herself understood her position; no one knew that she

had just refused the man whom perhaps she loved, and refused him

because she had put her faith in another.

Countess Nordston found Korsunsky, with whom she was to dance the

mazurka, and told him to ask Kitty.

Kitty danced in the first couple, and luckily for her she had not to

talk, because Korsunsky was all the time running about directing the

figure. Vronsky and Anna sat almost opposite her. She saw them with her

long-sighted eyes, and saw them, too, close by, when they met in the

figures, and the more she saw of them the more convinced was she that

her unhappiness was complete. She saw that they felt themselves alone

in that crowded room. And on Vronsky’s face, always so firm and

independent, she saw that look that had struck her, of bewilderment and

humble submissiveness, like the expression of an intelligent dog when

it has done wrong.

Anna smiled, and her smile was reflected by him. She grew thoughtful,

and he became serious. Some supernatural force drew Kitty’s eyes to

Anna’s face. She was fascinating in her simple black dress, fascinating

were her round arms with their bracelets, fascinating was her firm neck

with its thread of pearls, fascinating the straying curls of her loose

hair, fascinating the graceful, light movements of her little feet and

hands, fascinating was that lovely face in its eagerness, but there was

something terrible and cruel in her fascination.

Kitty admired her more than ever, and more and more acute was her

suffering. Kitty felt overwhelmed, and her face showed it. When Vronsky

saw her, coming across her in the mazurka, he did not at once recognize

her, she was so changed.

“Delightful ball!” he said to her, for the sake of saying something.

“Yes,” she answered.

In the middle of the mazurka, repeating a complicated figure, newly

invented by Korsunsky, Anna came forward into the center of the circle,

chose two gentlemen, and summoned a lady and Kitty. Kitty gazed at her

in dismay as she went up. Anna looked at her with drooping eyelids, and

smiled, pressing her hand. But, noticing that Kitty only responded to

her smile by a look of despair and amazement, she turned away from her,

and began gaily talking to the other lady.

“Yes, there is something uncanny, devilish and fascinating in her,”

Kitty said to herself.

Anna did not mean to stay to supper, but the master of the house began

to press her to do so.

“Nonsense, Anna Arkadyevna,” said Korsunsky, drawing her bare arm under

the sleeve of his dress coat, “I’ve such an idea for a _cotillion! Un

bijou!_”

And he moved gradually on, trying to draw her along with him. Their

host smiled approvingly.

“No, I am not going to stay,” answered Anna, smiling, but in spite of

her smile, both Korsunsky and the master of the house saw from her

resolute tone that she would not stay.

“No; why, as it is, I have danced more at your ball in Moscow than I

have all the winter in Petersburg,” said Anna, looking round at

Vronsky, who stood near her. “I must rest a little before my journey.”

“Are you certainly going tomorrow then?” asked Vronsky.

“Yes, I suppose so,” answered Anna, as it were wondering at the

boldness of his question; but the irrepressible, quivering brilliance

of her eyes and her smile set him on fire as she said it.

Anna Arkadyevna did not stay to supper, but went home.