CHAPTER XXIII
Vronsky took a few turns with Kitty, then she joined her mother; but she had time for only a few words with the Countess Nordstone, ere Vronsky came back to get her for the first quadrille. During the quadrille nothing of importance was said: their conversation was first on Korsunsky and his wife, whom Vronsky described very amusingly as amiable children of forty years, then on some private theatricals; and only once did his words give her a keen pang,—when he asked if Levin were there, and added that he liked him very much.
But Kitty counted little on the quadrille: she waited for the mazurka with a violent beating of the heart. She had a feeling that during the mazurka all would surely be settled. The fact that Vronsky did not ask her during the quadrille did not disturb her. She felt sure that she should be selected as his partner for the mazurka as in all preceding balls, and she refused five invitations, saying that she was engaged.
This whole ball, even to the last quadrille, seemed to Kitty like a magical dream, full of flowers, of joyous sounds, of movement; she did not cease to dance until her strength began to fail, and then she begged to rest a moment. But in dancing the last quadrille with one of those tiresome men whom she found it impossible to refuse, she found herself in the same set with Vronsky and Anna. Kitty had not fallen in with Anna since the beginning of the ball, and now again she suddenly saw her in another new and unexpected light. She seemed laboring under an excitement such as Kitty herself had experienced—that of success. She saw that Anna was excited and intoxicated with the wine of admiration. Kitty knew the sensation, knew the symptoms and recognized them in Anna—she saw the feverish brilliancy of her, and the smile of happiness and excitement involuntarily parting her lips, and the harmony, precision, and grace of her movements.
"Who has caused it?" she asked herself. "All, or one?"
She would not help her tormented partner in the conversation, the thread of which he had dropped and could not pick up again; and though she submitted with apparent good grace to the loud orders of Korsunsky, shouting "Ladies' chain" and "All hands around," she watched her closely, and her heart oppressed her more and more.
"No, it is not the approval of the crowd that has so intoxicated her, but the admiration of the one. And that one?—Can it be he?"
Every time Vronsky spoke to Anna, her eyes sparkled with pleasure, and a smile of happiness parted her rosy lips. She seemed to make an effort not to exhibit any signs of this joy, but nevertheless happiness was painted on her face.
"Can it be he?" thought Kitty.
She looked at him, and was horror-struck. The sentiments that were reflected on Anna's face as in a mirror were also visible on his. Where were his coolness, his calm dignity, the repose which always marked his face? Now, as he addressed his partner, his head bent as if he were ready to worship her, and his look expressed at once humility and passion, as if it said, 'I would not offend you. I would save myself, and how can I?'
Such was the expression of his face, and she had never before seen it in him.
They talked about their mutual acquaintances, their conversation was made up of trifles, and yet Kitty felt that every word they spoke decided her fate. Strange as it might seem, although they really remarked how ridiculous Ivan Ivanuitch was in his efforts to speak French, and how Miss Fletskaya might have found a better match, nevertheless these words had for them a peculiar meaning, and they understood it just as well as Kitty did.
In Kitty's mind, the whole ball, the whole evening, everything, seemed enveloped in mist. Only the stern school of her education, serving her well, sustained her, and enabled her to do what was required of her, that is to say, to dance, to answer questions, to talk, even to smile.
But even before the mazurka began, while they were arranging the chairs and a few couples were already starting to go from the smaller rooms into the great ball-room, a sudden attack of despair and terror seized her. She had refused five invitations, and now she had no partner; and now there was no hope at all that she would be invited again, for the very reason that her social success would make it unlikely to occur to any one that she would be without a partner. She would have to tell her mother that she was not feeling well, and go home, but even this seemed impossible. She felt overwhelmed.
She went into the farthest end of a small parlor, and threw herself into an arm-chair. The airy skirts of her robe enveloped her delicate figure as in a cloud. One bare arm, as yet a little thin, but pretty, fell without energy, and lay in the folds of her rose-colored skirt; with the other she held her fan, and with quick, sharp motions tried to cool her heated face. But while she looked like a lovely butterfly caught amid grasses, and ready to spread its rainbow-tinted wings, a horrible despair oppressed her heart.
"But perhaps I am mistaken: perhaps it is not so."
And again she recalled what she had seen.
"Kitty, what does this mean?" said the Countess Nordstone, coming to her with noiseless steps.
Kitty's lower lip quivered; she hastily arose.
"Kitty, are n't you dancing the mazurka?"
"No .... no," she replied, with trembling voice, almost in tears.
"I heard him invite her for the mazurka," said the countess, knowing that Kitty would know whom she meant. "She said, 'What! are n't you going to dance with the princess Shcherbatskaya?"
"Akh! it's all one to me," said Kitty.
No one besides herself realized her position. No one knew that she had refused a man whom perhaps she loved,—refused him because she preferred some one else.
The Countess Nordstone went in search of Korsunsky, who was her partner for the mazurka, and sent him to invite Kitty.
Kitty danced in the first figure, and fortunately was not required to talk, because Korsunsky was obliged to be ubiquitous, making his arrangements in his little kingdom. Vronsky and Anna were sitting nearly opposite to her: she saw them sometimes near, sometimes at a distance, as their turn brought them into the figures; and as she watched them, she felt more and more certain that her unhappiness was complete. She saw that they felt themselves alone even in the midst of the crowded ball-room; and on Vronsky's face, usually so impassive and calm, she remarked that mingled expression of humility and fear, which strikes one in an intelligent dog, conscious of having done wrong.
If Anna smiled, his smile replied; if she became thoughtful, he looked serious. An almost supernatural power seemed to attract Kitty's gaze to Anna's face. She was charming in her simple black velvet; charming were her round arms, clasped by bracelets; charming her firm neck, encircled with pearls; charming her dark, curly locks breaking from restraint; charming the slow and graceful movements of her small feet and hands; charming her lovely face, full of animation; but in all this charm there was something terrible and cruel.
Kitty admired her more than ever, and ever more and more her pain increased. She felt crushed, and her face told the story. When Vronsky passed her, in some figure of the mazurka, he hardly knew her, so much had she changed.
"Lovely ball," he said, so as to say something.
"Yes," was her reply.
Toward the middle of the mazurka, in going through a complicated figure recently invented by Korsunsky, Anna went to the center of the circle, and called out two gentlemen and two ladies; Kitty was one. As she approached Anna, she looked at her in dismay. Anna, half shutting her eyes, looked at her with a smile, and pressed her hand; then noticing that Kitty's face, replying to her smile, wore an expression of despair and amazement, she turned from her and began to talk to the other lady in animated tones.
"Yes, there is some terrible, almost infernal attraction about her," said Kitty to herself.
Anna did not wish to remain to supper, but the host insisted.
"Do stay, Anna Arkadyevna," said Korsunsky, as she stood with her bare arm resting on the sleeve of his coat. "Such a cotillion I have in mind! Un bijou!"
And the master of the house, looking on with a smile, encouraged his efforts to detain her.
"No, I cannot stay," said Anna, also smiling; but in spite of her smile the two men understood by the determination in her voice that she would not stay.
"No, for I have danced here in Moscow at this single ball more than all winter in Petersburg," said she, looking at Vronsky, who was standing near her; "one must rest before a journey."
"And so you are really going back to-morrow?" he asked.
"Yes; I think so," replied Anna, as if surprised at the boldness of his question. But as she said this to him, the brilliancy of her eyes and of her smile set his heart on fire.
Anna Arkadyevna did not stay for supper, but took her departure.