Vronsky and Kitty waltzed several times around the room. After the first waltz Kitty went to her mother, and she had hardly time to say a few words to Countess Nordston when Vronsky came up again for the first quadrille. During the quadrille nothing special was said: there was disjointed talk between them of the Korsunskys, husband and wife, whom he described very amusingly as delightful children at forty, and of the future town theater; and only once did the conversation touch her to the quick, when he asked her about Levin, whether he was here, and added the he liked him very much. But Kitty did not expect much from the quadrille. Her heart thrilled in anticipation of the mazurka. It seemed to her that in the mazurka everything must be decided. The fact that he did not during the quadrille ask for the mazurka did not trouble her. She felt sure she would dance the mazurka with him as she had done at former balls, and refused five young men, saying she was engaged for the mazurka. The whole ball up to the last quadrille was for Kitty an enchanted vision of delightful colors, sounds, and motions. She sat down only when she felt too tired and begged for a rest. But as she was dancing the last quadrille with one of the tiresome young men whom she could not refuse, she chanced to be vis-à-vis with Vronsky and Anna. She had not been near Anna since the beginning of the evening, and now again she saw her suddenly quite new and surprising. She saw in her the signs of that thrill she knew so well in herself; she saw that she was intoxicated with the delighted admiration she was exciting. She knew that feeling and knew it's signs, and saw them in Anna; saw the quivering, flashing light in her eyes, and the smile of happiness and excitement unconsciously playing on her lips, and the deliberate grace, precision, and lightness of her movements.
"Who?" she asked herself. "All or one?" And not assisting the harassed young man she was dancing with in the conversation, the thread of which he had lost and could not pick up agian, she obeyed with external liveliness the peremptory shouts of Korsunsky starting them all into the grand rond, and then into the chaîne, and at the same time she kept watch with a growing pang at her heart. "No, it's not the admiration of the crowd that has intoxicated her, but the adoration of one. And that one? Can it be he?" Every time he spoke to Anna the joyous light flashed into her eyes, and the smile of happiness curved her red lips. She seemed to make an effort to control herself, not to show these signs of delight, but they came out on her face by themselves. "But what of him?" Kitty looked at him and was filled with terror. What was pictured so clearly to Kitty in the mirror of Anna's face she saw in him. What had become of his always self-possessed resolute manner, and the carelessly serene expression of his face? Now every time he turned to her, he bent his head, as though he would have fallen at her feet, and in his eyes there was nothing but humble submission and dread. "I would not offend you," his eyes seemed every time to be saying, "but I want to save myself, and I don't know how." On his face was a look such as Kitty had never seen before.
They were speaking of common acquaintances, keeping up the most trivial conversation, but to Kitty it seemed that every word they said was determining their fate and hers. And strange it was that they were actually talking of how absurd Ivan Ivanovich was with his French, and how the Eletsky girl might have made a better match, yet these words were important for them, and they felt just as Kitty did. The whole ball, the whole world, everything seemed lost in a mist in Kitty's soul. Nothing but the stern discipline of her upbringing supporting her and forced her to do what was expected of her, that is, to dance, to answer questions, to talk, even to smile. But before the mazurka, when they were beginning to rearrange the chairs and a few couples moved out of the smaller rooms into the big room, a moment of despair and horror came for Kitty. She had refused five partners, and now she was not dancing the mazurka. She had not even a hope of being asked for it, because she was so successful in society that the idea would never occur to anyone that she had no partner. She would have to tell her mother she felt ill and go home, but she had not the strength to do this. She felt crushed.
She went to the furthest end of the little drawing room and sank into a low chair. Her airy skirts rose like a cloud about her slender waist; one bare, thin, soft, girlish arm, hanging listlessly, was lost in the folds of her pink tunic; in the other she held her fan, and with rapid, short strokes fanned her burning face. But while she looked like a butterfly clinging to a blade of grass, and just about to open its rainbow wings for fresh flight, her heart ached with horrible despair.
"But perhaps I am wrong, perhaps it was not so?" And again she recalled all she had seen.
"Kitty, what is it?" said Countess Nordston, stepping noiselessly over the carpet toward her. "I don't understand it."
Kitty's lower lip began to quiver; she got up quickly.
"Kitty, you're not dancing the mazurka?"
"No, no," said Kitty in a voice shaking with tears.
"He asked her for the mazurka before me," said Countess Nordston, knowing Kitty would understand who "he" and "her" were.
"She said: 'Why aren't you going to dance it with Princess Shcherbatskaya?'"
"Oh, I don't care!" answered Kitty.
No one but herself understood her position; no one knew that she had just refused the man whom perhaps she loved, and refused him because she had put her faith in another.
Countess Nordston found Korsunsky, with whom she was to dance the mazurka, and told him to ask Kitty.
Kitty danced in the first pair, and luckily for her she did not have to talk, because Korsunsky ran about directing the dancers. Vronsky and Anna sat almost opposite her. She saw them with her far-sighted eyes, and saw them too, close by, when they met in couples, and the more she saw of them, the more convinced was she that her unhappiness was complete. She saw that they felt themselves alone in that crowded room. And Vronsky's face, always so firm and independent, held that look that had struck her, of bewilderment and humble submissiveness, like the expression of an intelligent dog when it has done wrong.
Anna smiled, and her smile was reflected by him. She grew thoughtful, and he became serious. Some supernatural force drew Kitty's eyes to Anna's face. She was enchanting in her simple black dress, enchanting were her round arms with their bracelets, enchanting was her firm neck with its thread of pearls, fascinating the straying curls of her loose hair, enchanting the graceful, light movements of her little feet and hands, enchanting was that lovely face in its animation, but there was something terrible and cruel about her charm.
Kitty admired her more than ever, and more and more acute was her suffering. Kitty felt overwhelmed, and her face showed it. When Vronsky saw her during the mazurka, he did not at once recognize her, so changed was she.
"Delightful ball!" he said to her, for the sake of saying something.
"Yes," she answered.
In the middle of the mazurka, repeating a complicated figure newly invented by Korsunsky, Anna came forward into the center of the circle, chose two gentlemen, and summoned a lady and Kitty. Kitty gazed at her in dismay as she went up. Anna looked at her with drooping eyelids, and smiled, pressing her hand. But noticing that Kitty reponded to her smile only with a look of despair and amazement, she turned away from her, and began gaily talking to the other lady.
"Yes, there is something uncanny, demonic and fascinating in her," Kitty said to herself.
Anna did not mean to stay for supper, but the host began to insist that she stay.
"Nonsense, Anna Arkadyevna," said Korsunsky, drawing her bare arm under the sleeve of his dress coat, "I've a marvelous idea for a cotillion! Un bijou!"
And he moved gradually on, trying to draw her along with him. Their host smiled approvingly.
"No; why, as it is, I have danced more at your ball in Moscow than I have all winter in Petersburg," said Anna, looking round at Vronsky, who stood near her. "I must rest a little before my journey."
"Are you really going tomorrow, then?" asked Vronsky.
"Yes, I suppose so," answered Anna, wondering at the boldness of his question; but the irrepressible, flashing brilliance of her eyes and her smile set him on fire as she said it.
Anna Arkadyevna did not stay to supper, but went home.