‘When I’m old and ugly, I’ll become like that,’ said Betsy, ‘but for you, for a young, pretty woman, it’s too early for that almshouse.’
At first Anna had avoided this society of Princess Tverskoy’s as much as she could, because it called for expenses beyond her means, and also because at heart she preferred the other; but after her visit to Moscow it turned the other way round. She avoided her virtuous friends and went into the great world. There she met Vronsky and experienced an exciting joy at these meetings. She met Vronsky especially often at Betsy‘s, whose maiden name was Vronsky and who was his cousin. Vronsky went wherever he might meet Anna, and spoke to her whenever he could about his love. She never gave him any cause, but each time she met him, her soul lit up with the same feeling of animation that had come over her that day on the train when she had seen him for the first time. She felt joy shining in her eyes when she saw him and puckered her lips into a smile, and she was unable to extinguish the expression of that joy.
At first Anna sincerely believed that she was displeased with him for allowing himself to pursue her; but soon after her return from Moscow, having gone to a soiree where she thought she would meethim, and finding that he was not there, she clearly understood from the sadness which came over her that she was deceiving herself, that his pursuit not only was not unpleasant for her but constituted the entire interest of her life.
The famous singer was singing for the second time, and all the great world was in the theatre.2 Seeing his cousin from his seat in the front row, Vronsky went to her box without waiting for the interval.
‘Why didn’t you come for dinner?’ she said to him. ‘I’m amazed at the clairvoyance of people in love,’ she added with a smile and so that he alone could hear: ‘She wasn’t there. But drop in after the opera.’
Vronsky gave her a questioning glance. She lowered her head. He smiled in thanks and sat down next to her.
‘And how I remember your mockery!’ continued Princess Betsy, who found special pleasure in following the success of this passion. ‘Where has it all gone! You’re caught, my dear.’
‘My only wish is to be caught,’ Vronsky replied with his calm, good-natured smile. ‘If I have any complaint, it is at not being caught enough, if the truth be told. I’m beginning to lose hope.’
‘What hope can you have?’ said Betsy, getting offended for her friend. ‘Entendons nous ...’h But there was a twinkle in her eye which said that she understood very well, and exactly as he did, what hope he might have.
‘None,’ said Vronsky, laughing and showing a solid row of teeth. ‘Excuse me,’ he added, taking the opera-glasses from her hand and beginning to scan the facing row of boxes over her bared shoulder. ‘I’m afraid I’m becoming ridiculous.’
He knew very well that in the eyes of Betsy and all society people he ran no risk of being ridiculous. He knew very well that for those people the role of the unhappy lover of a young girl, or of a free woman generally, might be ridiculous; but the role of a man who attached himself to a married woman and devoted his life to involving her in adultery at all costs, had something beautiful and grand about it and could never be ridiculous, and therefore, with a proud and gay smile playing under his moustache, he lowered the opera-glasses and looked at his cousin.
‘And why didn’t you come to dinner?’ she added, looking at him with admiration.
‘That I must tell you about. I was busy, and with what? I’ll lay you a hundred, a thousand to one ... you’ll never guess. I was trying to make peace between a husband and his wife’s offender. Yes, really!’
‘And what, did you succeed?’
‘Nearly.’
‘You must tell me about it,’ she said, getting up. ‘Come during the next interval.’
‘Impossible. I’m going to the French Theatre.’
‘From Nilsson?’ said Betsy in horror, though she would never have been able to tell Nilsson from any chorus girl.
‘No help for it. I have an appointment there, all to do with this peacemaking business.’
‘Blessed are the peacemakers, for they shall be saved,’3 said Betsy, remembering hearing something of the sort from someone. ‘Sit down, then, and tell me about it.’
And she sat down again.
V
‘This is a bit indiscreet, but so charming that I want terribly to tell it,’ said Vronsky, looking at her with laughing eyes. ‘I won’t mention names.’
‘But I’ll guess them - so much the better.’
‘Listen, then. Two gay young men are out driving ...’4
‘Officers from your regiment, naturally.’
‘I’m not saying officers, simply two young men after lunch ...’
‘Translate: slightly drunk.’
‘Maybe so. They’re going to their friend’s for dinner, in the gayest spirits. They see a pretty young woman overtake them in a cab, look back and, so at least it seems to them, nod to them and laugh. Naturally, they go after her. They drive at full speed. To their surprise, the beauty stops at the entrance to the same house they’re going to. The beauty runs upstairs. They see only red lips under a short veil and beautiful little feet.’
‘You’re telling it with such feeling that I suppose you were one of the two yourself.’
‘And what did you say to me just now? Well, the young men go to their friend, he’s having a farewell dinner. Here they do indeed drink, maybe too much, as is usual at farewell dinners. And over dinner they ask who lives upstairs in that house. Nobody knows, and only the host’s footman, to their question whether any mamzelles live upstairs, answers that there are lots of them there. After dinner the young men go to the host’s study and write a letter to the unknown woman. They write a passionate letter, a declaration, and take the letter upstairs themselves, to explain in case the letter isn’t quite clear.’
‘Why do you tell me such vile things? Well?’
‘They ring. A maid comes out. They hand her the letter and assure the maid that they’re both so much in love that they’re going to die right there on the doorstep. The maid, quite perplexed, conveys the message. Suddenly there appears a gentleman with sausage-shaped side-whiskers, red as a lobster, who announces to them that no one lives in the house except his wife, and throws them both out.’
‘And how do you know his side-whiskers are sausage-shaped, as you say?’
‘Just listen. Today I went to try and make peace between them.’
‘Well, and what then?’
‘Here’s the most interesting part. It turned out that they’re a happy titular councillor and councilloress.5 The titular councillor lodges a complaint, and I act as the make-peace - and what a one! I assure you, Talleyrand6 has nothing on me.’
‘So what’s the difficulty?’
‘Listen now ... We apologized properly: “We are in despair, we beg you to forgive us this unfortunate misunderstanding.” The titular councillor with the little sausages begins to soften, but he also wants to express his feelings, and as soon as he starts expressing them, he starts getting excited and saying rude things, and I again have to employ all my diplomatic talents. “I agree that they did not behave nicely, but I beg you to consider the misunderstanding and their youth; then, too, the young men had just had lunch. You understand. They repent with all their soul, they beg to be forgiven their fault.” The titular councillor softens again: “I agree, Count, and I’m ready to forgive them, but you understand that my wife, my wife, an honourable woman, has been subjected to the pursuit, rudeness and brazenness of some boys, scound ...” And, remember, one of the boys is right there, and I’m supposed to make peace between them. Again I use diplomacy, and again, as soon as the whole affair is about to be concluded, my titular councillor gets excited, turns red, the little sausages bristle, and again I dissolve into diplomatic subtleties.’