"I'm not going," said Liza, smiling and settling herself close to Anna. "You won't go either, will you? Who wants to play croquet?"
"Oh, I like it," said Anna.
"There, how do you manage never to be bored by things?
It's delightful to look at you.
You're alive, but I'm bored."
"How can you be bored?
Why, you live in the liveliest set in Petersburg," said Anna.
"Possibly the people who are not of our set are even more bored; but we--I certainly--are not happy, but awfully, awfully bored."
Sappho smoking a cigarette went off into the garden with the two young men.
Betsy and Stremov remained at the tea-table.
"What, bored!" said Betsy. "Sappho says they did enjoy themselves tremendously at your house last night."
"Ah, how dreary it all was!" said Liza Merkalova. "We all drove back to my place after the races.
And always the same people, always the same.
Always the same thing.
We lounged about on sofas all the evening.
What is there to enjoy in that?
No; do tell me how you manage never to be bored?" she said, addressing Anna again. "One has but to look at you and one sees, here's a woman who may be happy or unhappy, but isn't bored.
Tell me how you do it?"
"I do nothing," answered Anna, blushing at these searching questions.
"That's the best way," Stremov put in.
Stremov was a man of fifty, partly gray, but still vigorous-looking, very ugly, but with a characteristic and intelligent face.
Liza Merkalova was his wife's niece, and he spent all his leisure hours with her.
On meeting Anna Karenina, as he was Alexey Alexandrovitch's enemy in the government, he tried, like a shrewd man and a man of the world, to be particularly cordial with her, the wife of his enemy.
"'Nothing,'" he put in with a subtle smile, "that's the very best way.
I told you long ago," he said, turning to Liza Merkalova, "that if you don't want to be bored, you mustn't think you're going to be bored.
It's just as you mustn't be afraid of not being able to fall asleep, if you're afraid of sleeplessness.
That's just what Anna Arkadyevna has just said."
"I should be very glad if I had said it, for it's not only clever but true," said Anna, smiling.
"No, do tell me why it is one can't go to sleep, and one can't help being bored?"
"To sleep well one ought to work, and to enjoy oneself one ought to work too."
"What am I to work for when my work is no use to anybody?
And I can't and won't knowingly make a pretense about it."
"You're incorrigible," said Stremov, not looking at her, and he spoke again to Anna.
As he rarely met Anna, he could say nothing but commonplaces to her, but he said those commonplaces as to when she was returning to Petersburg, and how fond Countess Lidia Ivanovna was of her, with an expression which suggested that he longed with his whole soul to please her and show his regard for her and even more than that.
Tushkevitch came in, announcing that the party were awaiting the other players to begin croquet.
"No, don't go away, please don't," pleaded Liza Merkalova, hearing that Anna was going.
Stremov joined in her entreaties.
"It's too violent a transition," he said, "to go from such company to old Madame Vrede.
And besides, you will only give her a chance for talking scandal, while here you arouse none but such different feelings of the highest and most opposite kind," he said to her.
Anna pondered for an instant in uncertainty.
This shrewd man's flattering words, the naive, childlike affection shown her by Liza Merkalova, and all the social atmosphere she was used to,-- it was all so easy, and what was in store for her was so difficult, that she was for a minute in uncertainty whether to remain, whether to put off a little longer the painful moment of explanation.
But remembering what was in store for her alone at home, if she did not come to some decision, remembering that gesture--terrible even in memory--when she had clutched her hair in both hands--she said good-bye and went away.
Chapter 19
In spite of Vronsky's apparently frivolous life in society, he was a man who hated irregularity.
In early youth in the Corps of Pages, he had experienced the humiliation of a refusal, when he had tried, being in difficulties, to borrow money, and since then he had never once put himself in the same position again.
In order to keep his affairs in some sort of order, he used about five times a year (more or less frequently, according to circumstances) to shut himself up alone and put all his affairs into definite shape.
This he used to call his day of reckoning or _faire la lessive_.
On waking up the day after the races, Vronsky put on a white linen coat, and without shaving or taking his bath, he distributed about the table moneys, bills, and letters, and set to work.
Petritsky, who knew he was ill-tempered on such occasions, on waking up and seeing his comrade at the writing-table, quietly dressed and went out without getting in his way.
Every man who knows to the minutest details all the complexity of the conditions surrounding him, cannot help imagining that the complexity of these conditions, and the difficulty of making them clear, is something exceptional and personal, peculiar to himself, and never supposes that others are surrounded by just as complicated an array of personal affairs as he is.