‘And when is the ball to be?’ said Anna, turning to Kitty.
‘Next week, and it will be a delightful ball. One of those balls which are always jolly.’
‘Are there any that are always jolly?’ asked Anna with tender irony.
‘It is strange, but there are! It’s always jolly at the Bobrishchevs’ and also at the Nikitins’, while it’s always dull at the Meshkovs’. Haven’t you noticed it?’
‘No, my dear, there are no more jolly balls for me,’ said Anna, and Kitty saw in her eyes that peculiar world which was not yet revealed to her. ‘There are some that are not as difficult and dull as the rest.’
‘How can you be dull at a ball?’
‘Why cannot I be dull at a ball?’ asked Anna.
Kitty saw that Anna knew the answer that would follow.
‘Because you must always be the belle of the ball.’
Anna had a capacity for blushing. She blushed and answered, ‘In the first place, I never am: but even if I were, what use would it be to me?’
‘Will you go to that ball?’ asked Kitty.
‘I suppose I shall have to. Here take this,’ she said, turning to Tanya who was drawing off a ring which fitted loosely on her aunt’s small tapering finger.
‘I shall be very glad if you go. I should so like to see you at a ball.’
‘Well, then, if I have to go, I shall console myself with the reflection that it will give you pleasure… . Grisha, please don’t pull so hard, it is all in a tangle already,’ she said, arranging a loose lock of hair with which Grisha was playing.
‘I imagine you at that ball in lilac!’
‘Why must it be lilac?’ asked Anna half laughing. ‘Now, children, run away, run away. Don’t you hear? There’s Miss Hull calling you to tea,’ she went on, disengaging herself from the children and dispatching them to the dining-room. ‘But I know why you are asking me to go to that ball. You’re expecting much from it, and would like everybody to be there and have a share in it.’
‘How do you know? Well, yes!’
‘Oh yes, it is good to be your age,’ Anna continued. ‘I remember and know that blue mist, like the mist on the Swiss mountains … that mist which envelops everything at that blissful time when childhood is just, just coming to an end, and its immense, blissful circle turns into an ever-narrowing path, and you enter the defile gladly yet with dread, though it seems bright and beautiful… . Who has not passed through it?’
Kitty smiled and remained silent. ‘How did she pass through it? How I should like to know her story!’ thought she, recollecting the unpoetic appearance of Anna’s husband Alexis Karenin.
‘I know something — Stiva told me and I congratulate you. I like him very much,’ Anna continued. ‘I met Vronsky at the railway station.’
‘Oh, was he there?’ asked Kitty, blushing. ‘What did Stiva tell you?’
‘Stiva let it all out to me, and I shall be very pleased… . I travelled yesterday with Vronsky’s mother,’ she continued, ‘and she talked about him all the time. He is her favourite son. I know how partial mothers are, but …’
‘What did his mother tell you?’
‘Oh very much! and I know he is her favourite, but anyone can see he is full of chivalry… . For instance she told me that he wished to give all his property to his brother, that already as a boy he had done something extraordinary, saved a woman from drowning. In a word, he is a hero,’ said Anna, smiling and remembering the 200 roubles he had given away at the station.
But she did not mention the 200 roubles. For some reason she did not like to think of them. She felt that there had been something in it relating personally to her that should not have been.
‘She particularly wished me to go and see her,’ continued Anna. ‘I shall be glad to see the old lady again, and will go to-morrow. Well, thank heaven Stiva is stopping a long time with Dolly,’ she added changing the subject, and she rose, dissatisfied with something, Kitty thought.
‘I was first!’ ‘No, I!’ cried the children, who having finished their tea rushed back to Aunt Anna.
‘All together!’ said Anna laughing and running to meet them, and putting her arms round them she tumbled the whole heap of children — struggling and shrieking joyfully — on to the floor.
Chapter 21
DOLLY came out of her room for the grown-up people’s tea. Oblonsky did not appear. He had probably left his wife’s room by the other door.
‘I’m afraid you will be cold upstairs,’ remarked Dolly to Anna. ‘I want to move you down, and then we shall be nearer to one another.’
‘Oh, please don’t trouble about me,’ said Anna, scrutinizing Dolly’s face and trying to discover whether a reconciliation had taken place.
‘It will be too light for you downstairs,’ said her sister-in-law.
‘I assure you that I sleep always and anywhere like a dormouse.’
‘What are you talking about?’ asked Oblonsky, entering the room from his study and addressing his wife.
From his tone both Kitty and Anna gathered that a reconciliation had taken place.
‘I want to move Anna downstairs, only the curtains must be changed. I shall have to do it myself, no one else can do it,’ Dolly answered addressing him.
‘Goodness knows if they have quite made it up,’ thought Anna on hearing her tone, which was cold and calm.
‘Come now, Dolly! always making difficulties,’ said her husband. ‘If you like I will do it all.’
‘Yes, they must have come together again,’ thought Anna.
‘I know how you’ll do it all,’ answered Dolly. ‘You will tell Matthew to do something that cannot be done and will go away yourself, and he will muddle everything,’ and as she spoke her usual ironical smile wrinkled the corners of Dolly’s mouth.
‘Yes, a full, a full reconciliation, quite complete. Thank God!’ thought Anna, and pleased to have been the means of bringing it about, she went up to Dolly and kissed her.
‘Not at all. Why do you so despise Matthew and me?’ said Oblonsky, turning to his wife with a slight smile.
All that evening Dolly maintained her usual slightly bantering manner toward her husband, and Oblonsky was contented and cheerful, but not to the extent of seeming to forget his guilt after having obtained forgiveness.
At half-past nine an unusually pleasant and happy family conversation round the Oblonskys’ tea-table was disturbed by an apparently very ordinary occurrence which yet struck them all as strange. While they were talking about their mutual Petersburg acquaintances Anna rose suddenly.
‘I have her photo in my album,’ said she, ‘and I’ll show you my Serezha’s too,’ she added with a mother’s proud smile.
For toward ten o’clock — the time when she generally said good-night to her son and often put him to bed herself before going to a ball — she felt sad at being so far from him, and, whatever they talked about, her thoughts kept returning to her curly-headed