I'll break through the spider's web of lies in which he wants to catch me, come what may. Anything's better than lying and deceit.'
`But how? My God! my God! Was ever a woman so miserable as I am?...'
`No; I will break through it, I will break through it!' she cried, jumping up and keeping back her tears. And she went to the writing table to write him another letter. But at the bottom of her heart she felt that she was not strong enough to break through anything, that she was not strong enough to get out of her old position, however false and dishonorable it might be.
She sat down at the writing table, but instead of writing she clasped her hands on the table, and, laying her head on them, burst into tears, with sobs and heaving breast, like a child crying. She was weeping because her dream of her position being made clear and definite had been annihilated forever. She knew beforehand that everything would go on in the old way, and far worse, indeed, than in the old way. She felt that her position in the world she enjoyed, and which had seemed to her of so little consequence in the morning, was now precious to her, that she would not have the strength to exchange it for the shameful position of a woman who has abandoned husband and child to join her lover; that however much she might struggle, she could not be stronger than herself. She would never know freedom in love, but would remain forever a guilty wife, with the menace of detection hanging over her at every instant; deceiving her husband for the sake of a shameful connection with a man living apart and away from her, whose life she could never share. She knew that this was how it would be, and at the same time it was so awful that she could not even conceive what it would end in. And she cried without restraint, as children cry when they are punished.
The sound of a footman's steps forced her to rouse herself, and, hiding her face from him, she pretended to be writing.
`The messenger asks if there's any answer,' the footman informed her.
`Any answer? Yes,' said Anna. `Let him wait. I'll ring.'
`What can I write?' she thought. `What can I decide upon alone?
What do I know? What do I want? What is there I care for?' Again she felt that her soul was beginning to double. She was terrified again at this feeling, and clutched at the first pretext for doing something which might divert her thoughts from herself. `I ought to see Alexei' (so she called Vronsky in her thoughts); `no one but he can tell me what I ought to do.
I'll go to Betsy's, perhaps I shall see him there,' she said to herself, completely forgetting that, when she had told him the day before that she was not going to Princess Tverskaia's he had said that in that case he should not go either. She went up to the table, wrote to her husband: `Ihave received your letter. - A.'; and, ringing the bell, gave it to the footman.
`We are not going,' she said to Annushka, as she came in.
`Not going at all?'
`No; don't unpack till tomorrow, and let the carriage wait. I'm going to the Princess.'
`Which dress am I to get ready?'
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TOLSTOY: Anna Karenina Part 3, Chapter 17[Previous Chapter] [Table of Contents] Chapter 17 The croquet party to which the Princess Tverskaia had invited Anna was to consist of two ladies and their adorers. These two ladies were the chief representatives of a select new Peterburg circle, nicknamed, in imitation of some imitation, Les sept merveilles du monde . These ladies belonged to a circle which, though of the highest society, was utterly hostile to that in which Anna moved. Moreover, old Stremov, one of the most influential people in Peterburg, and the admirer of Liza Merkalova, was Alexei Alexandrovich's enemy in the political world. From all these considerations Anna had not meant to go, and the hints in Princess Tverskaia's note referred to her refusal. But now Anna was eager to go, in the hope of seeing Vronsky.
Anna arrived at Princess Tverskaia's earlier than the other guests.
At the very moment of her entry, Vronsky's footman, with his side whiskers combed out, and looking like a Kammerjunker, went in too. He stopped at the door, and, taking off his cap, let her pass. Anna recognized him, and only then recalled that Vronsky had told her the day before that he would not come. Most likely he was sending a note to say so.
As she took off her outer garment in the hall, she heard the footman say, rolling his r's even like a Kammerjunker: `From the Count for the Princess,' as he handed over the note.
She longed to question him as to where his master was. She longed to turn back and send him a letter to come and see her, or to go herself to see him. But none of the three courses was possible. Already she heard bells ringing ahead of her to announce her arrival, and Princess Tverskaia's footman was standing at the open door waiting for her to pass into the inner rooms.
`The Princess is in the garden; she will be informed 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, impossible 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 had to do. Everything would be done of itself. On meeting Betsy coming toward her in a white gown that struck her by its elegance, Anna smiled to her just as she always did.
Princess Tverskaia was walking with Tushkevich and a young lady, a relation, who, to the great joy of her parents in the provinces, was spending the summer with the fashionable Princess.
There was probably something unusual about Anna, for Betsy noticed it at once.
