The third circle, finally, where she had connections, was essentially le beau monde—a world of balls, dinners, and dazzling gowns, and a world which kept one hand on the court, so as not to descend to the demi-monde, which the members of this circle affected to despise, although their tastes were not only similar, but identical. Her connection with this circle was maintained through Princess Betsy Tverskaya, her cousin’s wife, who had an income of a hundred and twenty thousand roubles, and who from the moment of Anna’s first appearance in society had become greatly attached to her, taking her under her wing and luring her into her circle, while scoffing at Countess Lydia Ivanovna’s circle.
‘When I’m old and ugly I’ll be just like them,’ Betsy used to say, ‘but it’s too early for a pretty young woman like you to go into that almshouse.’
Anna had initially steered clear of Princess Tverskaya’s circle as much as she could, since it required expenditure beyond her means, and her natural inclination was anyway to prefer the other set; but after her trip to Moscow the reverse happened. She avoided her virtuous friends and went into high society. There she would encounter Vronsky, and she experienced a joyous thrill during those encounters. She encountered Vronsky particularly often when she visited Betsy, who had been born Vronskaya and was his cousin. Wherever there might be a possibility of meeting Anna, Vronsky was there, and he spoke to her of his love whenever he could. She gave him no encouragement, but every time she met him, her soul lit up with that same feeling of animation which had taken hold of her that day in the railway carriage when she saw him for the first time. She herself could feel the joy shining in her eyes and pursing her lips into a smile when she saw him, and she could not suppress this joy from manifesting itself.
At first Anna sincerely believed that she was displeased with him for taking the liberty of pursuing her, but when, soon after her return from Moscow, she arrived at a soirée where she thought she would find him but did not, she clearly realized from the sadness which overcame her that she was deceiving herself, and that not only was his pursuit of her not unpleasant to her, but that it constituted the whole interest of her life.
The famous prima donna* was singing for the second time, and all of high society was at the theatre. When Vronsky caught sight of his cousin from his seat in the front row, he went into her box without waiting for the interval.
‘Why didn’t you come to dinner?’ she said to him. ‘I’m amazed at the clairvoyance of people in love,’ she added with a smile, so that only he could hear: ‘She wasn’t there. But come round after the opera.’
Vronsky looked at her quizzically. She inclined her head. He thanked her with a smile, and sat down behind her.
‘And when I remember how dismissive you were!’ continued Princess Betsy, who took a particular pleasure in following the course of this love affair. ‘What’s become of all that? You’re caught, my dear boy.’
‘My only desire is to be caught,’ answered Vronsky with his serene, good-natured smile. ‘If I do have a complaint, it’s only that I haven’t been quite caught yet, to tell the truth. I’m beginning to lose hope.’
‘And what hope can you possibly have?’ said Betsy, offended on behalf of her friend; ‘entendons nous …’1 But her eyes were twinkling with a look which suggested that she understood very well, and in just the same way he did, the sort of hope he might cherish.
‘None whatsoever,’ said Vronsky, laughing and showing his solid row of teeth. ‘Excuse me,’ he added, taking the opera-glasses from her hand, and proceeding to look over her bare shoulder at the row of boxes facing them. ‘I’m afraid I’m becoming ridiculous.’
He knew very well that he ran no risk of looking ridiculous in the eyes of Betsy or anyone else in society. He knew very well that the role of the unsuccessful lover of a young girl or generally unattached woman might be ridiculous in their eyes; but the role of a man pursuing a married woman, and staking his life at all costs on luring her into adultery—that role had something attractive and illustrious about it, and could never be ridiculous, so with a proud and mischievous smile hovering under his moustache he lowered the opera-glasses and looked at his cousin.
‘But why didn’t you come to dinner?’ she said, looking at him admiringly.
‘I must tell you about that. I was busy, and do you know what I was doing? I’ll give you a hundred guesses, a thousand … but you’ll never guess. I was making peace between a husband and a man who insulted his wife. Yes, really!’
‘Well, did you succeed?’
‘Almost.’
‘You must tell me all about it,’ she said, getting up. ‘Come in the next interval.’
‘I can’t; I’m going to the French Theatre.’*
‘After hearing Nilsson?’ asked Betsy in horror, despite being unable to distinguish Nilsson from any chorus girl.
‘Can’t help it. I’ve an appointment there, to do with this peacemaking still.’
‘Blessed are the peacemakers, for they shall be saved,’* said Betsy, vaguely remembering that she had heard someone saying something similar. ‘Well sit down then, and tell me, what is this all about?’
And she sat down again.
1 ‘let us understand each other’.
5
‘IT’s rather indiscreet, but so charming I’m dying to tell the story,’ said Vronsky, looking at her with laughing eyes. ‘I won’t mention any names.’
‘But I will guess—so much the better.’
‘So listen: two cheery young men are on their way …’
‘Officers from your regiment, I presume?’
‘I didn’t say they were officers, simply two young men who have had lunch….’
‘Which translates as drinking.’
‘Possibly. They are on their way to dinner with a comrade, and are in the best of spirits. And they see this pretty woman overtaking them in a cab, looking round and, so it seems to them at least, beckoning them and laughing. They follow her, of course. They gallop off at full speed. To their amazement, the beautiful woman stops at the entrance of the very same building they are going to. The beautiful woman runs up to the top floor. All they can see are some little crimson lips under a short veil, and lovely little feet.’
‘You’re telling this story with such feeling that I think you must be one of these two young men.’
‘And what were you telling me just now? Well, the young men go in to their comrade’s apartment where he is having a farewell dinner. They certainly drink at this point, perhaps too much, as one always does at farewell dinners. And during the dinner they ask who lives on the top floor of the building. No one knows, and when they ask whether there are any mam’selles living upstairs, only their host’s servant answers and says that there are lots of them up there. After dinner the young men go to their host’s study and write a letter to the unknown woman. They write a truly passionate letter, a declaration of love, and they take the letter upstairs themselves, so that they can explain anything that might not be quite clear.’
‘Why do you tell me such horrible things? Well?’
‘They ring. A maid opens the door, they hand over the letter, and assure the maid that they are both so in love that they are about to die right then and there by the door. The bewildered maid tries to arbitrate. Suddenly a gentleman with whiskers like little sausages appears, red as a lobster, and declares that no one lives there except his wife, and throws them both out.’