Kitty blushed. She thought that she was the only person who knew why
he had come, and why he would not come up. “He has been at home,” she
thought, “and didn’t find me, and thought I should be here, but he did not
come up because he thought it late, and Anna’s here.”
All of them looked at each other, saying nothing, and began to look at
Anna’s album.
There was nothing either exceptional or strange in a man’s calling at half-
past nine on a friend to inquire details of a proposed dinner party and not
coming in, but it seemed strange to all of them. Above all, it seemed strange
and not right to Anna.
Chapter 22
The ball was only just beginning as Kitty and her mother walked up the
great staircase, flooded with light, and lined with flowers and footmen in
powder and red coats. From the rooms came a constant, steady hum, as
from a hive, and the rustle of movement; and while on the landing between
trees they gave last touches to their hair and dresses before the mirror, they
heard from the ballroom the careful, distinct notes of the fiddles of the
orchestra beginning the first waltz. A little old man in civilian dress,
arranging his gray curls before another mirror, and diffusing an odor of
scent, stumbled against them on the stairs, and stood aside, evidently
admiring Kitty, whom he did not know. A beardless youth, one of those
society youths whom the old Prince Shtcherbatsky called “young bucks,” in
an exceedingly open waistcoat, straightening his white tie as he went,
bowed to them, and after running by, came back to ask Kitty for a quadrille.
As the first quadrille had already been given to Vronsky, she had to promise
this youth the second. An officer, buttoning his glove, stood aside in the
doorway, and stroking his mustache, admired rosy Kitty.
Although her dress, her coiffure, and all the preparations for the ball had
cost Kitty great trouble and consideration, at this moment she walked into
the ballroom in her elaborate tulle dress over a pink slip as easily and
simply as though all the rosettes and lace, all the minute details of her attire,
had not cost her or her family a moment’s attention, as though she had been
born in that tulle and lace, with her hair done up high on her head, and a
rose and two leaves on the top of it.
When, just before entering the ballroom, the princess, her mother, tried to
turn right side out of the ribbon of her sash, Kitty had drawn back a little.
She felt that everything must be right of itself, and graceful, and nothing
could need setting straight.
It was one of Kitty’s best days. Her dress was not uncomfortable
anywhere; her lace berthe did not droop anywhere; her rosettes were not
crushed nor torn off; her pink slippers with high, hollowed-out heels did not
pinch, but gladdened her feet; and the thick rolls of fair chignon kept up on
her head as if they were her own hair. All the three buttons buttoned up
without tearing on the long glove that covered her hand without concealing
its lines. The black velvet of her locket nestled with special softness round
her neck. That velvet was delicious; at home, looking at her neck in the
looking-glass, Kitty had felt that that velvet was speaking. About all the rest
there might be a doubt, but the velvet was delicious. Kitty smiled here too,
at the ball, when she glanced at it in the glass. Her bare shoulders and arms
gave Kitty a sense of chill marble, a feeling she particularly liked. Her eyes
sparkled, and her rosy lips could not keep from smiling from the
consciousness of her own attractiveness. She had scarcely entered the
ballroom and reached the throng of ladies, all tulle, ribbons, lace, and
flowers, waiting to be asked to dance—Kitty was never one of that throng
—when she was asked for a waltz, and asked by the best partner, the first
star in the hierarchy of the ballroom, a renowned director of dances, a
married man, handsome and well-built, Yegorushka Korsunsky. He had
only just left the Countess Bonina, with whom he had danced the first half
of the waltz, and, scanning his kingdom—that is to say, a few couples who
had started dancing—he caught sight of Kitty, entering, and flew up to her
with that peculiar, easy amble which is confined to directors of balls.
Without even asking her if she cared to dance, he put out his arm to encircle
her slender waist. She looked round for someone to give her fan to, and
their hostess, smiling to her, took it.
“How nice you’ve come in good time,” he said to her, embracing her
waist; “such a bad habit to be late.” Bending her left hand, she laid it on his
shoulder, and her little feet in their pink slippers began swiftly, lightly, and
rhythmically moving over the slippery floor in time to the music.
“It’s a rest to waltz with you,” he said to her, as they fell into the first
slow steps of the waltz. “It’s exquisite—such lightness, precision.” He said
to her the same thing he said to almost all his partners whom he knew well.
She smiled at his praise, and continued to look about the room over his
shoulder. She was not like a girl at her first ball, for whom all faces in the
ballroom melt into one vision of fairyland. And she was not a girl who had
gone the stale round of balls till every face in the ballroom was familiar and
tiresome. But she was in the middle stage between these two; she was
excited, and at the same time she had sufficient self-possession to be able to
observe. In the left corner of the ballroom she saw the cream of society
gathered together. There—incredibly naked—was the beauty Lidi,
Korsunsky’s wife; there was the lady of the house; there shone the bald
head of Krivin, always to be found where the best people were. In that
direction gazed the young men, not venturing to approach. There, too, she
descried Stiva, and there she saw the exquisite figure and head of Anna in a
black velvet gown. And he was there. Kitty had not seen him since the
evening she refused Levin. With her long-sighted eyes, she knew him at
once, and was even aware that he was looking at her.
“Another turn, eh? You’re not tired?” said Korsunsky, a little out of
breath.
“No, thank you!”
“Where shall I take you?”
“Madame Karenina’s here, I think … take me to her.”
“Wherever you command.”
And Korsunsky began waltzing with measured steps straight towards the
group in the left corner, continually saying, “Pardon, mesdames, pardon,
pardon, mesdames”; and steering his course through the sea of lace, tulle,
and ribbon, and not disarranging a feather, he turned his partner sharply
round, so that her slim ankles, in light transparent stockings, were exposed
to view, and her train floated out in fan shape and covered Krivin’s knees.
Korsunsky bowed, set straight his open shirt front, and gave her his arm to
conduct her to Anna Arkadyevna. Kitty, flushed, took her train from
Krivin’s knees, and, a little giddy, looked round, seeking Anna. Anna was
not in lilac, as Kitty had so urgently wished, but in a black, low-cut, velvet
gown, showing her full throat and shoulders, that looked as though carved
in old ivory, and her rounded arms, with tiny, slender wrists. The whole
gown was trimmed with Venetian guipure. On her head, among her black
hair—her own, with no false additions—was a little wreath of pansies, and
a bouquet of the same in the black ribbon of her sash among white lace. Her
coiffure was not striking. All that was noticeable was the little wilful
tendrils of her curly hair that would always break free about her neck and
temples. Round her well-cut, strong neck was a thread of pearls.
Kitty had been seeing Anna every day; she adored her, and had pictured
her invariably in lilac. But now seeing her in black, she felt that she had not
fully seen her charm. She saw her now as someone quite new and surprising
to her. Now she understood that Anna could not have been in lilac, and that
her charm was just that she always stood out against her attire, that her
dress could never be noticeable on her. And her black dress, with its
sumptuous lace, was not noticeable on her; it was only the frame, and all
that was seen was she—simple, natural, elegant, and at the same time gay
and eager.
She was standing holding herself, as always, very erect, and when Kitty
drew near the group she was speaking to the master of the house, her head
slightly turned towards him.
“No, I don’t throw stones,” she was saying, in answer to something,
“though I can’t understand it,” she went on, shrugging her shoulders, and
she turned at once with a soft smile of protection towards Kitty. With a
flying, feminine glance she scanned her attire, and made a movement of her
head, hardly perceptible, but understood by Kitty, signifying approval of her
dress and her looks. “You came into the room dancing,” she added.
“This is one of my most faithful supporters,” said Korsunsky, bowing to
Anna Arkadyevna, whom he had not yet seen. “The princess helps to make
balls happy and successful. Anna Arkadyevna, a waltz?” he said, bending
down to her.
“Why, have you met?” inquired their host.
“Is there anyone we have not met? My wife and I are like white wolves
—everyone knows us,” answered Korsunsky. “A waltz, Anna Arkadyevna?”
“I don’t dance when it’s possible not to dance,” she said.
“But tonight it’s impossible,” answered Korsunsky.
At that instant Vronsky came up.
