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to turn back and send him a letter to come and see her, or to go herself
to see him. But neither the first nor the second nor the third course was
possible. Already she heard bells ringing to announce her arrival ahead
of her, and Princess Tverskaya’s footman was standing at the open door
waiting for her to go forward into the inner rooms.
“The princess is in the garden; they will inform her immediately.
Would you be pleased to walk into the garden?” announced another
footman in another room.
The position of uncertainty, of indecision, was still the same as at
home—worse, in fact, since it was impossible to take any step, impos-
sible to see Vronsky, and she had to remain here among outsiders, in
company so uncongenial to her present mood. But she was wearing a
dress that she knew suited her. She was not alone; all around was that
luxurious setting of idleness that she was used to, and she felt less
wretched than at home. She was not forced to think what she was to
do. Everything would be done of itself. On meeting Betsy coming
towards her in a white gown that struck her by its elegance, Anna
smiled at her just as she always did. Princess Tverskaya was walking
with Tushkevitch and a young lady, a relation, who, to the great joy of
her parents in the provinces, was spending the summer with the fash-
ionable princess.
There was probably something unusual about Anna, for Betsy
noticed it at once.
“I slept badly,” answered Anna, looking intently at the footman
who came to meet them, and, as she supposed, brought Vronsky’s note.
“How glad I am you’ve come!” said Betsy. “I’m tired, and was just
longing to have some tea before they come. You might go”— she
turned to Tushkevitch—”with Masha, and try the croquet ground over
there where they’ve been cutting it. We shall have time to talk a little
over tea; we’ll have a cozy chat, eh?” she said in English to Anna, with
a smile, pressing the hand with which she held a parasol.
“Yes, especially as I can’t stay very long with you. I’m forced to go
on to old Madame Vrede. I’ve been promising to go for a century,” said
Anna, to whom lying, alien as it was to her nature, had become not
merely simple and natural in society, but a positive source of satisfac-
tion. Why she said this, which she had not thought of a second before,
she could not have explained. She had said it simply from the reflec-
tion that as Vronsky would not be here, she had better secure her own
freedom, and try to see him somehow. But why she had spoken of old
Madame Vrede, whom she had to go and see, as she had to see many
other people, she could not have explained; and yet, as it afterwards
turned out, had she contrived the most cunning devices to meet Vronsky,
she could have thought of nothing better.
“No. I’m not going to let you go for anything,” answered Betsy,
looking intently into Anna’s face. “Really, if I were not fond of you, I
should feel offended. One would think you were afraid my society
would compromise you. Tea in the little dining room, please,” she said,
half closing her eyes, as she always did when addressing the footman.
Taking the note from him, she read it.
“Alexey’s playing us false,” she said in French; “he writes that he
can’t come,” she added in a tone as simple and natural as though it
could never enter her head that Vronsky could mean anything more to
Anna than a game of croquet. Anna knew that Betsy knew every-
thing, but, hearing how she spoke of Vronsky before her, she almost felt
persuaded for a minute that she knew nothing.
“Ah!” said Anna indifferently, as though not greatly interested in
the matter, and she went on smiling: “How can you or your friends
compromise anyone?”