Chapter 10
When Levin went into the restaurant with Oblonsky,
he could not help noticing a certain peculiarity of
expression, as it were, a restrained radiance, about the face
and whole figure of Stepan Arkadyevitch. Oblonsky took
off his overcoat, and with his hat over one ear walked into
the dining room, giving directions to the Tatar waiters,
who were clustered about him in evening coats, bearing
napkins. Bowing to right and left to the people he met,
and here as everywhere joyously greeting acquaintances,
he went up to the sideboard for a preliminary appetizer of
fish and vodka, and said to the painted Frenchwoman
decked in ribbons, lace, and ringlets, behind the counter,
something so amusing that even that Frenchwoman was
moved to genuine laughter. Levin for his part refrained
from taking any vodka simply because he felt such a
loathing of that Frenchwoman, all made up, it seemed, of
false hair, poudre de riz, and vinaigre de toilette. He made
haste to move away from her, as from a dirty place. His
whole soul was filled with memories of Kitty, and there
was a smile of triumph and happiness shining in his eyes.
‘This way, your excellency, please. Your excellency
won’t be disturbed here,’ said a particularly pertinacious,
white-headed old Tatar with immense hips and coattails
gaping widely behind. ‘Walk in, your excellency,’ he said
to Levin; by way of showing his respect to Stepan
Arkadyevitch, being attentive to his guest as well.
Instantly flinging a fresh cloth over the round table
under the bronze chandelier, though it already had a table
cloth on it, he pushed up velvet chairs, and came to a
standstill before Stepan Arkadyevitch with a napkin and a
bill of fare in his hands, awaiting his commands.
‘If you prefer it, your excellency, a private room will be
free directly; Prince Golistin with a lady. Fresh oysters
have come in.’
‘Ah! oysters.’
Stepan Arkadyevitch became thoughtful.
‘How if we were to change our program, Levin?’ he
said keeping his finger on the bill of fare. And his face
expressed serious hesitation. ‘Are the oysters good? Mind
now.’
‘They’re Flensburg, your excellency. We’ve no
Ostend.’
‘Flensburg will do, but are they fresh?’
‘Only arrived yesterday.’
‘Well, then, how if we were to begin with oysters, and
so change the whole program? Eh?’
‘It’s all the same to me. I should like cabbage soup and
porridge better than anything; but of course there’s
nothing like that here.’
‘Porridge a la Russe, your honor would like?’ said the
Tatar, bending down to Levin, like a nurse speaking to a
child.
‘No, joking apart, whatever you choose is sure to be
good. I’ve been skating, and I’m hungry. And don’t
imagine,’ he added, detecting a look of dissatisfaction on
Oblonsky’s face, ‘that I shan’t appreciate your choice. I am
fond of good things.’
‘I should hope so! After all, it’s one of the pleasures of
life,’ said Stepan Arkadyevitch. ‘Well, then, my friend,
you give us two—or better say three—dozen oysters, clear
soup with vegetables..’
‘Printaniere,’ prompted the Tatar. But Stepan
Arkadyevitch apparently did not care to allow him the
satisfaction of giving the French names of the dishes.
‘With vegetables in it, you know. Then turbot with
thick sauce, then...roast beef; and mind it’s good. Yes, and
capons, perhaps, and then sweets.’
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The Tatar, recollecting that it was Stepan
Arkadyevitch’s way not to call the dishes by the names in
the French bill of fare, did not repeat them after him, but
could not resist rehearsing the whole menus to himself
according to the bill:—‘Soupe printaniere, turbot, sauce
Beaumarchais, poulard a l’estragon, macedoine de
fruits...etc.,’ and then instantly, as though worked by
springs, laying down one bound bill of fare, he took up
another, the list of wines, and submitted it to Stepan
Arkadyevitch.
‘What shall we drink?’
‘What you like, only not too much. Champagne,’ said
Levin.
‘What! to start with? You’re right though, I dare say.
Do you like the white seal?’
‘Cachet blanc,’ prompted the Tatar.
‘Very well, then, give us that brand with the oysters,
and then we’ll see.’
‘Yes, sir. And what table wine?’
‘You can give us Nuits. Oh, no, better the classic
Chablis.’
‘Yes, sir. And YOUR cheese, your excellency?’
‘Oh, yes, Parmesan. Or would you like another?’
‘No, it’s all the same to me,’ said Levin, unable to
suppress a smile.
And the Tatar ran off with flying coattails, and in five
minutes darted in with a dish of opened oysters on
mother-of-pearl shells, and a bottle between his fingers.
Stepan Arkadyevitch crushed the starchy napkin,
tucked it into his waistcoat, and settling his arms
comfortably, started on the oysters.
‘Not bad,’ he said, stripping the oysters from the pearly
shell with a silver fork, and swallowing them one after
another. ‘Not bad,’ he repeated, turning his dewy, brilliant
eyes from Levin to the Tatar.
Levin ate the oysters indeed, though white bread and
cheese would have pleased him better. But he was
admiring Oblonsky. Even the Tatar, uncorking the bottle
and pouring the sparkling wine into the delicate glasses,
glanced at Stepan Arkadyevitch, and settled his white
cravat with a perceptible smile of satisfaction.
‘You don’t care much for oysters, do you?’ said Stepan
Arkadyevitch, emptying his wine glass, ‘or you’re worried
about something. Eh?’
He wanted Levin to be in good spirits. But it was not
that Levin was not in good spirits; he was ill at ease. With
what he had in his soul, he felt sore and uncomfortable in
the restaurant, in the midst of private rooms where men
were dining with ladies, in all this fuss and bustle; the
surroundings of bronzes, looking glasses, gas, and
waiters—all of it was offensive to him. He was afraid of
sullying what his soul was brimful of.
‘I? Yes, I am; but besides, all this bothers me,’ he said.
‘You can’t conceive how queer it all seems to a country
person like me, as queer as that gentleman’s nails I saw at
your place..’
‘Yes, I saw how much interested you were in poor
Grinevitch’s nails,’ said Stepan Arkadyevitch, laughing.
‘It’s too much for me,’ responded Levin. ‘Do try, now,
and put yourself in my place, take the point of view of a
country person. We in the country try to bring our hands
into such a state as will be most convenient for working
with. So we cut our nails; sometimes we turn up our
sleeves. And here people purposely let their nails grow as
long as they will, and link on small saucers by way of
studs, so that they can do nothing with their hands.’
Stepan Arkadyevitch smiled gaily.
‘Oh, yes, that’s just a sign that he has no need to do
coarse work. His work is with the mind..’
‘Maybe. But still it’s queer to me, just as at this
moment it seems queer to me that we country folks try to
get our meals over as soon as we can, so as to be ready for
our work, while here are we trying to drag out our meal
as long as possible, and with that object eating oysters..’
‘Why, of course,’ objected Stepan Arkadyevitch. ‘But
that’s just the aim of civilization—to make everything a
source of enjoyment.’
‘Well, if that’s its aim, I’d rather be a savage.’
‘And so you are a savage. All you Levins are savages.’
Levin sighed. He remembered his brother Nikolay, and
felt ashamed and sore, and he scowled; but Oblonsky
began speaking of a subject which at once drew his
attention.
‘Oh, I say, are you going tonight to our people, the
Shtcherbatskys’, I mean?’ he said, his eyes sparkling
significantly as he pushed away the empty rough shells,
and drew the cheese towards him.
‘Yes, I shall certainly go,’ replied Levin; ‘though I
fancied the princess was not very warm in her invitation.’
‘What nonsense! That’s her manner.... Come, boy, the
soup!.... That’s her manner—grande dame,’ said Stepan
Arkadyevitch. ‘I’m coming, too, but I have to go to the
Countess Bonina’s rehearsal. Come, isn’t it true that
you’re a savage? How do you explain the sudden way in
which you vanished from Moscow? The Shtcherbatskys
were continually asking me about you, as though I ought
to know. The only thing I know is that you always do
what no one else does.’
‘Yes,’ said Levin, slowly and with emotion, ‘you’re
right. I am a savage. Only, my savageness is not in having
gone away, but in coming now. Now I have come..’
‘Oh, what a lucky fellow you are!’ broke in Stepan
Arkadyevitch, looking into Levin’s eyes.
‘Why?’
‘I know a gallant steed by tokens sure, And by his eyes
I know a youth in love,’ declaimed Stepan Arkadyevitch.
‘Everything is before you.’
‘Why, is it over for you already?’
‘No; not over exactly, but the future is yours, and the
present is mine, and the present—well, it’s not all that it
might be.’
‘How so?’
‘Oh, things go wrong. But I don’t want to talk of
myself, and besides I can’t explain it all,’ said Stepan
Arkadyevitch. ‘Well, why have you come to Moscow,
then?.... Hi! take away!’ he called to the Tatar.
‘You guess?’ responded Levin, his eyes like deep wells
of light fixed on Stepan Arkadyevitch.
‘I guess, but I can’t be the first to talk about it. You can
see by that whether I guess right or wrong,’ said Stepan
Arkadyevitch, gazing at Levin with a subtle smile.
‘Well, and what have you to say to me?’ said Levin in a
quivering voice, feeling that all the muscles of his face
were quivering too. ‘How do you look at the question?’
Stepan Arkadyevitch slowly emptied his glass of
Chablis, never taking his eyes off Levin.
‘I?’ said Stepan Arkadyevitch, ‘there’s nothing I desire
so much as that—nothing! It would be the best thing that
could be.’
‘But you’re not making a mistake? You know what
we’re speaking of?’ said Levin, piercing him with his eyes.
‘You think it’s possible?’
‘I think it’s possible. Why not possible?’
‘No! do you really think it’s possible? No, tell me all
you think! Oh, but if...if refusal’s in store for me!... Indeed
I feel sure..’
‘Why should you think that?’ said Stepan Arkadyevitch,
smiling at his excitement.
‘It seems so to me sometimes. That will be awful for
me, and for her too.’
‘Oh, well, anyway there’s nothing awful in it for a girl.
Every girl’s proud of an offer.’
‘Yes, every girl, but not she.’
Stepan Arkadyevitch smiled. He so well knew that
feeling of Levin’s, that for him all the girls in the world
were divided into two classes: one class—all the girls in the
world except her, and those girls with all sorts of human
weaknesses, and very ordinary girls: the other class—she
alone, having no weaknesses of any sort and higher than
all humanity.
‘Stay, take some sauce,’ he said, holding back Levin’s
hand as it pushed away the sauce.
Levin obediently helped himself to sauce, but would
not let Stepan Arkadyevitch go on with his dinner.
‘No, stop a minute, stop a minute,’ he said. ‘You must
understand that it’s a question of life and death for me. I
have never spoken to any one of this. And there’s no one
I could speak of it to, except you. You know we’re utterly
unlike each other, different tastes and views and
everything; but I know you’re fond of me and understand
me, and that’s why I like you awfully. But for God’s sake,
be quite straightforward with me.’
‘I tell you what I think,’ said Stepan Arkadyevitch,
smiling. ‘But I’ll say more: my wife is a wonderful
woman...’ Stepan Arkadyevitch sighed, remembering his
position with his wife, and, after a moment’s silence,
resumed—‘She has a gift of foreseeing things. She sees
right through people; but that’s not all; she knows what
will come to pass, especially in the way of marriages. She
foretold, for instance, that Princess Shahovskaya would
marry Brenteln. No one would believe it, but it came to
pass. And she’s on your side.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘It’s not only that she likes you—she says that Kitty is
certain to be your wife.’
At these words Levin’s face suddenly lighted up with a
smile, a smile not far from tears of emotion.
‘She says that!’ cried Levin. ‘I always said she was
exquisite, your wife. There, that’s enough, enough said
about it,’ he said, getting up from his seat.
‘All right, but do sit down.’
But Levin could not sit down. He walked with his firm
tread twice up and down the little cage of a room, blinked
his eyelids that his tears might not fall, and only then sat
down to the table.
‘You must understand,’ said he, ‘it’s not love. I’ve been
in love, but it’s not that. It’s not my feeling, but a sort of
force outside me has taken possession of me. I went away,
you see, because I made up my mind that it could never
be, you understand, as a happiness that does not come on
earth; but I’ve struggled with myself, I see there’s no living
without it. And it must be settled.’
‘What did you go away for?’
‘Ah, stop a minute! Ah, the thoughts that come
crowding on one! The questions one must ask oneself!
Listen. You can’t imagine what you’ve done for me by
what you said. I’m so happy that I’ve become positively
hateful; I’ve forgotten everything. I heard today that my
brother Nikolay...you know, he’s here...I had even
forgotten him. It seems to me that he’s happy too. It’s a
sort of madness. But one thing’s awful.... Here, you’ve
been married, you know the feeling...it’s awful that we—
old—with a past... not of love, but of sins...are brought all
at once so near to a creature pure and innocent; it’s
loathsome, and that’s why one can’t help feeling oneself
unworthy.’
‘Oh, well, you’ve not many sins on your conscience.’
‘Alas! all the same,’ said Levin, ‘when with loathing I
go over my life, I shudder and curse and bitterly regret
it.... Yes.’
‘What would you have? The world’s made so,’ said
Stepan Arkadyevitch.
‘The one comfort is like that prayer, which I always
liked: ‘Forgive me not according to my unworthiness, but
according to Thy lovingkindness.’ That’s the only way she
can forgive me.’
Chapter 11
Levin emptied his glass, and they were silent for a
while.
‘There’s one other thing I ought to tell you. Do you
know Vronsky?’ Stepan Arkadyevitch asked Levin.
‘No, I don’t. Why do you ask?’
‘Give us another bottle,’ Stepan Arkadyevitch directed
the Tatar, who was filling up their glasses and fidgeting
round them just when he was not wanted.
‘Why you ought to know Vronsky is that he’s one of
your rivals.’
‘Who’s Vronsky?’ said Levin, and his face was suddenly
transformed from the look of childlike ecstasy which
Oblonsky had just been admiring to an angry and
unpleasant expression.
‘Vronsky is one of the sons of Count Kirill Ivanovitch
Vronsky, and one of the finest specimens of the gilded
youth of Petersburg. I made his acquaintance in Tver
when I was there on official business, and he came there
for the levy of recruits. Fearfully rich, handsome, great
connections, an aide-de-camp, and with all that a very
nice, good-natured fellow. But he’s more than simply a
good-natured fellow, as I’ve found out here—he’s a
cultivated man, too, and very intelligent; he’s a man
who’ll make his mark.’
Levin scowled and was dumb.
‘Well, he turned up here soon after you’d gone, and as
I can see, he’s over head and ears in love with Kitty, and
you know that her mother..’
‘Excuse me, but I know nothing,’ said Levin, frowning
gloomily. And immediately he recollected his brother
Nikolay and how hateful he was to have been able to
forget him.
‘You wait a bit, wait a bit,’ said Stepan Arkadyevitch,
smiling and touching his hand. ‘I’ve told you what I
know, and I repeat that in this delicate and tender matter,
as far as one can conjecture, I believe the chances are in
your favor.’
Levin dropped back in his chair; his face was pale.
‘But I would advise you to settle the thing as soon as
may be,’ pursued Oblonsky, filling up his glass.
‘No, thanks, I can’t drink any more,’ said Levin,
pushing away his glass. ‘I shall be drunk.... Come, tell me
how are you getting on?’ he went on, obviously anxious
to change the conversation.
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‘One word more: in any case I advise you to settle the
question soon. Tonight I don’t advise you to speak,’ said
Stepan Arkadyevitch. ‘Go round tomorrow morning,
make an offer in due form, and God bless you..’
‘Oh, do you still think of coming to me for some
shooting? Come next spring, do,’ said Levin.
Now his whole soul was full of remorse that he had
begun this conversation with Stepan Arkadyevitch. A
feeling such as his was prefaced by talk of the rivalry of
some Petersburg officer, of the suppositions and the
counsels of Stepan Arkadyevitch.
Stepan Arkadyevitch smiled. He knew what was
passing in Levin’s soul.
‘I’ll come some day,’ he said. ‘But women, my boy,
they’re the pivot everything turns upon. Things are in a
bad way with me, very bad. And it’s all through women.
Tell me frankly now,’ he pursued, picking up a cigar and
keeping one hand on his glass; ‘give me your advice.’
‘Why, what is it?’
‘I’ll tell you. Suppose you’re married, you love your
wife, but you’re fascinated by another woman..’
‘Excuse me, but I’m absolutely unable to comprehend
how...just as I can’t comprehend how I could now, after
my dinner, go straight to a baker’s shop and steal a roll.’
Stepan Arkadyevitch’s eyes sparkled more than usual.
‘Why not? A roll will sometimes smell so good one
can’t resist it.’
‘Himmlisch ist’s, wenn ich bezwungen
Meine irdische Begier;
Aber doch wenn’s nich gelungen
Hatt’ ich auch recht huebsch Plaisir!’
As he said this, Stepan Arkadyevitch smiled subtly.
Levin, too, could not help smiling.
‘Yes, but joking apart,’ resumed Stepan Arkadyevitch,
‘you must understand that the woman is a sweet, gentle
loving creature, poor and lonely, and has sacrificed
everything. Now, when the thing’s done, don’t you see,
can one possibly cast her off? Even supposing one parts
from her, so as not to break up one’s family life, still, can
one help feeling for her, setting her on her feet, softening
her lot?’
‘Well, you must excuse me there. You know to me all
women are divided into two classes...at least no...truer to
say: there are women and there are...I’ve never seen
exquisite fallen beings, and I never shall see them, but such
creatures as that painted Frenchwoman at the counter with
the ringlets are vermin to my mind, and all fallen women
are the same.’
‘But the Magdalen?’
‘Ah, drop that! Christ would never have said those
words if He had known how they would be abused. Of all
the Gospel those words are the only ones remembered.
However, I’m not saying so much what I think, as what I
feel. I have a loathing for fallen women. You’re afraid of
spiders, and I of these vermin. Most likely you’ve not
made a study of spiders and don’t know their character;
and so it is with me.’
‘It’s very well for you to talk like that; it’s very much
like that gentleman in Dickens who used to fling all
difficult questions over his right shoulder. But to deny the
facts is no answer. What’s to be done—you tell me that,
what’s to be done? Your wife gets older, while you’re full
of life. Before you’ve time to look round, you feel that
you can’t love your wife with love, however much you
may esteem her. And then all at once love turns up, and
you’re done for, done for,’ Stepan Arkadyevitch said with
weary despair.
Levin half smiled.
‘Yes, you’re done for,’ resumed Oblonsky. ‘But what’s
to be done?’
‘Don’t steal rolls.’
Stepan Arkadyevitch laughed outright.
‘Oh, moralist! But you must understand, there are two
women; one insists only on her rights, and those rights are
your love, which you can’t give her; and the other
sacrifices everything for you and asks for nothing. What
are you to do? How are you to act? There’s a fearful
tragedy in it.’
‘If you care for my profession of faith as regards that,
I’ll tell you that I don’t believe there was any tragedy
about it. And this is why. To my mind, love...both the
sorts of love, which you remember Plato defines in his
Banquet, served as the test of men. Some men only
understand one sort, and some only the other. And those
who only know the non-platonic love have no need to
talk of tragedy. In such love there can be no sort of
tragedy. ‘I’m much obliged for the gratification, my
humble respects’—that’s all the tragedy. And in platonic
love there can be no tragedy, because in that love all is
clear and pure, because..’
At that instant Levin recollected his own sins and the
inner conflict he had lived through. And he added
unexpectedly:
‘But perhaps you are right. Very likely...I don’t know, I
don’t know.’
‘It’s this, don’t you see,’ said Stepan Arkadyevitch,
‘you’re very much all of a piece. That’s your strong point
and your failing. You have a character that’s all of a piece,
and you want the whole of life to be of a piece too—but
that’s not how it is. You despise public official work
because you want the reality to be invariably
corresponding all the while with the aim—and that’s not
how it is. You want a man’s work, too, always to have a
defined aim, and love and family life always to be
undivided—and that’s not how it is. All the variety, all the
charm, all the beauty of life is made up of light and
shadow.’
Levin sighed and made no reply. He was thinking of
his own affairs, and did not hear Oblonsky.
And suddenly both of them felt that though they were
friends, though they had been dining and drinking
together, which should have drawn them closer, yet each
was thinking only of his own affairs, and they had nothing
to do with one another. Oblonsky had more than once
experienced this extreme sense of aloofness, instead of
intimacy, coming on after dinner, and he knew what to
do in such cases.
‘Bill!’ he called, and he went into the next room where
he promptly came across and aide-de-camp of his
acquaintance and dropped into conversation with him
about an actress and her protector. And at once in the
conversation with the aide-de-camp Oblonsky had a sense
of relaxation and relief after the conversation with Levin,
which always put him to too great a mental and spiritual
strain.
When the Tatar appeared with a bill for twenty-six
roubles and odd kopecks, besides a tip for himself, Levin,
who would another time have been horrified, like any one
from the country, at his share of fourteen roubles, did not
notice it, paid, and set off homewards to dress and go to
the Shtcherbatskys’ there to decide his fate.
Chapter 12
The young Princess Kitty Shtcherbatskaya was
eighteen. It was the first winter that she had been out in
the world. Her success in society had been greater than
that of either of her elder sisters, and greater even than her
mother had anticipated. To say nothing of the young men
who danced at the Moscow balls being almost all in love
with Kitty, two serious suitors had already this first winter
made their appearance: Levin, and immediately after his
departure, Count Vronsky.
Levin’s appearance at the beginning of the winter, his
frequent visits, and evident love for Kitty, had led to the
first serious conversations between Kitty’s parents as to her
future, and to disputes between them. The prince was on
Levin’s side; he said he wished for nothing better for
Kitty. The princess for her part, going round the question
in the manner peculiar to women, maintained that Kitty
was too young, that Levin had done nothing to prove that
he had serious intentions, that Kitty felt no great attraction
to him, and other side issues; but she did not state the
principal point, which was that she looked for a better
match for her daughter, and that Levin was not to her
liking, and she did not understand him. When Levin had
abruptly departed, the princess was delighted, and said to
her husband triumphantly: ‘You see I was right.’ When
Vronsky appeared on the scene, she was still more
delighted, confirmed in her opinion that Kitty was to
make not simply a good, but a brilliant match.
In the mother’s eyes there could be no comparison
between Vronsky and Levin. She disliked in Levin his
strange and uncompromising opinions and his shyness in
society, founded, as she supposed, on his pride and his
queer sort of life, as she considered it, absorbed in cattle
and peasants. She did not very much like it that he, who
was in love with her daughter, had kept coming to the
house for six weeks, as though he were waiting for
something, inspecting, as though he were afraid he might
be doing them too great an honor by making an offer, and
did not realize that a man, who continually visits at a
house where there is a young unmarried girl, is bound to
make his intentions clear. And suddenly, without doing
so, he disappeared. ‘It’s as well he’s not attractive enough
for Kitty to have fallen in love with him,’ thought the
mother.
Vronsky satisfied all the mother’s desires. Very wealthy,
clever, of aristocratic family, on the highroad to a brilliant
career in the army and at court, and a fascinating man.
Nothing better could be wished for.
Vronsky openly flirted with Kitty at balls, danced with
her, and came continually to the house, consequently
there could be no doubt of the seriousness of his
intentions. But, in spite of that, the mother had spent the
whole of that winter in a state of terrible anxiety and
agitation.
Princess Shtcherbatskaya had herself been married thirty
years ago, her aunt arranging the match. Her husband,
about whom everything was well known before hand, had
come, looked at his future bride, and been looked at. The
match-making aunt had ascertained and communicated
their mutual impression. That impression had been
favorable. Afterwards, on a day fixed beforehand, the
expected offer was made to her parents, and accepted. All
had passed very simply and easily. So it seemed, at least, to
the princess. But over her own daughters she had felt how
far from simple and easy is the business, apparently so
commonplace, of marrying off one’s daughters. The panics
that had been lived through, the thoughts that had been
brooded over, the money that had been wasted, and the
disputes with her husband over marrying the two elder
girls, Darya and Natalia! Now, since the youngest had
come out, she was going through the same terrors, the
same doubts, and still more violent quarrels with her
husband than she had over the elder girls. The old prince,
like all fathers indeed, was exceedingly punctilious on the
score of the honor and reputation of his daughters. He was
irrationally jealous over his daughters, especially over
Kitty, who was his favorite. At every turn he had scenes
with the princess for compromising her daughter. The
princess had grown accustomed to this already with her
other daughters, but now she felt that there was more
ground for the prince’s touchiness. She saw that of late
years much was changed in the manners of society, that a
mother’s duties had become still more difficult. She saw
that girls of Kitty’s age formed some sort of clubs, went to
some sort of lectures, mixed freely in men’s society; drove
about the streets alone, many of them did not curtsey, and,
what was the most important thing, all the girls were
firmly convinced that to choose their husbands was their
own affair, and not their parents’. ‘Marriages aren’t made
nowadays as they used to be,’ was thought and said by all
these young girls, and even by their elders. But how
marriages were made now, the princess could not learn
from any one. The French fashion—of the parents
arranging their children’s future—was not accepted; it was
condemned. The English fashion of the complete
independence of girls was also not accepted, and not
possible in Russian society. The Russian fashion of matchmaking
by the offices if intermediate persons was for some
reason considered unseemly; it was ridiculed by every one,
and by the princess herself. But how girls were to be
married, and how parents were to marry them, no one
knew. Everyone with whom the princess had chanced to
discuss the matter said the same thing: ‘Mercy on us, it’s
high time in our day to cast off all that old-fashioned
business. It’s the young people have to marry; and not
their parents; and so we ought to leave the young people
to arrange it as they choose.’ It was very easy for anyone
to say that who had no daughters, but the princess realized
that in the process of getting to know each other, her
daughter might fall in love, and fall in love with someone
who did not care to marry her or who was quite unfit to
be her husband. And, however much it was instilled into
the princess that in our times young people ought to
arrange their lives for themselves, she was unable to
believe it, just as she would have been unable to believe
that, at any time whatever, the most suitable playthings for
children five years old ought to be loaded pistols. And so
the princess was more uneasy over Kitty than she had been
over her elder sisters.
Now she was afraid that Vronsky might confine himself
to simply flirting with her daughter. She saw that her
daughter was in love with him, but tried to comfort
herself with the thought that he was an honorable man,
and would not do this. But at the same time she knew
how easy it is, with the freedom of manners of today, to
turn a girl’s head, and how lightly men generally regard
such a crime. The week before, Kitty had told her mother
of a conversation she had with Vronsky during a mazurka.
This conversation had partly reassured the princess; but
perfectly at ease she could not be. Vronsky had told Kitty
that both he and his brother were so used to obeying their
mother that they never made up their minds to any
important undertaking without consulting her. ‘And just
now, I am impatiently awaiting my mother’s arrival from
Petersburg, as peculiarly fortunate,’ he told her.
Kitty had repeated this without attaching any
significance to the words. But her mother saw them in a
different light. She knew that the old lady was expected
from day to day, that she would be pleased at her son’s
choice, and she felt it strange that he should not make his
offer through fear of vexing his mother. However, she was
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so anxious for the marriage itself, and still more for relief
from her fears, that she believed it was so. Bitter as it was
for the princess to see the unhappiness of her eldest
daughter, Dolly, on the point of leaving her husband, her
anxiety over the decision of her youngest daughter’s fate
engrossed all her feelings. Today, with Levin’s
reappearance, a fresh source of anxiety arose. She was
afraid that her daughter, who had at one time, as she
fancied, a feeling for Levin, might, from extreme sense of
honor, refuse Vronsky, and that Levin’s arrival might
generally complicate and delay the affair so near being
concluded.
‘Why, has be been here long?’ the princess asked about
Levin, as they returned home.
‘He came today, mamma.’
‘There’s one thing I want to say...’ began the princess,
and from her serious and alert face, Kitty guessed what it
would be.
‘Mamma,’ she said, flushing hotly and turning quickly
to her, ‘please, please don’t say anything about that. I
know, I know all about it.’
She wished for what her mother wished for, but the
motives of her mother’s wishes wounded her.
‘I only want to say that to raise hopes..’
‘Mamma, darling, for goodness’ sake, don’t talk about
it. It’s so horrible to talk about it.’
‘I won’t,’ said her mother, seeing the tears in her
daughter’s eyes; ‘but one thing, my love; you promised
me you would have no secrets from me. You won’t?’
‘Never, mamma, none,’ answered Kitty, flushing a
little, and looking her mother straight in the face, ‘but
there’s no use in my telling you anything, and I...I...if I
wanted to, I don’t know what to say or how...I don’t
know..’
‘No, she could not tell an untruth with those eyes,’
thought the mother, smiling at her agitation and
happiness. The princess smiled that what was taking place
just now in her soul seemed to the poor child so immense
and so important.
Chapter 13
After dinner, and till the beginning of the evening,
Kitty was feeling a sensation akin to the sensation of a
young man before a battle. Her heat throbbed violently,
and her thoughts would not rest on anything.
She felt that this evening, when they would both meet
for the first time, would be a turning point in her life. And
she was continually picturing them to herself, at one
moment each separately, and then both together. When
she mused on the past, she dwelt with pleasure, with
tenderness, on the memories of her relations with Levin.
The memories of childhood and of Levin’s friendship with
her dead brother gave a special poetic charm to her
relations with him. His love for her, of which she felt
certain, was flattering and delightful to her; and it was
pleasant for her to think of Levin. In her memories of
Vronsky there always entered a certain element of
awkwardness, though he was in the highest degree wellbred
and at ease, as though there were some false note—
not in Vronsky, he was very simple and nice, but in
herself, while with Levin she felt perfectly simple and
clear. But, on the other hand, directly she thought of the
future with Vronsky, there arose before her a perspective
of brilliant happiness; with Levin the future seemed misty.
When she went upstairs to dress, and looked into the
looking-glass, she noticed with joy that it was one of her
good days, and that she was in complete possession of all
her forces,—she needed this so for what lay before her:
she was conscious of external composure and free grace in
her movements.
At half-past seven she had only just gone down into the
drawing room, when the footman announced, ‘Konstantin
Dmitrievitch Levin.’ The princess was still in her room,
and the prince had not come in. ‘So it is to be,’ thought
Kitty, and all the blood seemed to rush to her heart. She
was horrified at her paleness, as she glanced into the
looking-glass. At that moment she knew beyond doubt
that he had come early on purpose to find her alone and
to make her an offer. And only then for the first time the
whole thing presented itself in a new, different aspect;
only then she realized that the question did not affect her
only— with whom she would be happy, and whom she
loved—but that she would have that moment to wound a
man whom she liked. And to wound him cruelly. What
for? Because he, dear fellow, loved her, was in love with
her. But there was no help for it, so it must be, so it
would have to be.
‘My God! shall I myself really have to say it to him?’
she thought. ‘Can I tell him I don’t love him? That will be
a lie. What am I to say to him? That I love someone else?
No, that’s impossible. I’m going away, I’m going away.’
She had reached the door, when she heard his step.
‘No! it’s not honest. What have I to be afraid of? I have
done nothing wrong. What is to be, will be! I’ll tell the
truth. And with him one can’t be ill at ease. Here he is,’
she said to herself, seeing his powerful, shy figure, with his
shining eyes fixed on her. She looked straight into his face,
as thought imploring him to spare her, and gave her hand.
‘It’s not time yet; I think I’m too early,’ he said
glancing round the empty drawing room. When he saw
that his expectations were realized, that there was nothing
to prevent him from speaking, his face became gloomy.
‘Oh, no,’ said Kitty, and sat down at the table.
‘But this was just what I wanted, to find you alone,’ be
began, not sitting down, and not looking at her, so as not
to lose courage.
‘Mamma will be down directly. She was very much
tired.... Yesterday..’
She talked on, not knowing what her lips were
uttering, and not taking her supplicating and caressing eyes
off him.
He glanced at her; she blushed, and ceased speaking.
‘I told you I did not know whether I should be here
long...that it depended on you..’
She dropped her head lower and lower, not knowing
herself what answer she should make to what was coming.
‘That it depended on you,’ he repeated. ‘I meant to
say...I meant to say...I came for this...to be my wife!’ he
brought out, not knowing what he was saying; but feeling
that the most terrible thing was said, he stopped short and
looked at her...
She was breathing heavily, not looking at him. She was
feeling ecstasy. Her soul was flooded with happiness. She
had never anticipated that the utterance of love would
produce such a powerful effect on her. But it lasted only
an instant. She remembered Vronsky. She lifted her clear,
truthful eyes, and seeing his desperate face, she answered
hastily:
‘That cannot be...forgive me.’
A moment ago, and how close she had been to him, of
what importance in his life! And how aloof and remote
from him she had become now!
‘It was bound to be so,’ he said, not looking at her.
He bowed, and was meaning to retreat.
Chapter 14
But at that very moment the princess came in. There
was a look of horror on her face when she saw them
alone, and their disturbed faces. Levin bowed to her, and
said nothing. Kitty did not speak nor lift her eyes. ‘Thank
God, she has refused him,’ thought the mother, and her
face lighted up with the habitual smile with which she
greeted her guests on Thursdays. She sat down and began
questioning Levin about his life in the country. He sat
down again, waiting for other visitors to arrive, in order to
retreat unnoticed.
Five minutes later there came in a friend of Kitty’s,
married the preceding winter, Countess Nordston.
She was a thin, sallow, sickly, and nervous woman,
with brilliant black eyes. She was fond of Kitty, and her
affection for her showed itself, as the affection of married
women for girls always does, in the desire to make a
match for Kitty after her own ideal of married happiness;
she wanted her to marry Vronsky. Levin she had often
met at the Shtcherbatskys’ early in the winter, and she had
always disliked him. Her invariable and favorite pursuit,
when they met, consisted in making fun of him.
‘I do like it when he looks down at me from the height
of his grandeur, or breaks off his learned conversation with
me because I’m a fool, or is condescending to me. I like
that so; to see him condescending! I am so glad he can’t
bear me,’ she used to say of him.
She was right, for Levin actually could not bear her,
and despised her for what she was proud of and regarded
as a fine characteristic—her nervousness, her delicate
contempt and indifference for everything coarse and
earthly.
The Countess Nordston and Levin got into that
relation with one another not seldom seen in society,
when two persons, who remain externally on friendly
terms, despise each other to such a degree that they cannot
even take each other seriously, and cannot even be
offended by each other.
The Countess Nordston pounced upon Levin at once.
‘Ah, Konstantin Dmitrievitch! So you’ve come back to
our corrupt Babylon,’ she said, giving him her tiny, yellow
hand, and recalling what he had chanced to say early in
the winter, that Moscow was a Babylon. ‘Come, is
Babylon reformed, or have you degenerated?’ she added,
glancing with a simper at Kitty.
‘It’s very flattering for me, countess, that you remember
my words so well,’ responded Levin, who had succeeded
in recovering his composure, and at once from habit
dropped into his tone of joking hostility to the Countess
Nordston. ‘They must certainly make a great impression
on you.’
‘Oh, I should think so! I always note them all down.
Well, Kitty, have you been skating again?...
And she began talking to Kitty. Awkward as it was for
Levin to withdraw now, it would still have been easier for
him to perpetrate this awkwardness than to remain all the
evening and see Kitty, who glanced at him now and then
and avoided his eyes. He was on the point of getting up,
when the princess, noticing that he was silent, addressed
him.
‘Shall you be long in Moscow? You’re busy with the
district council, though, aren’t you, and can’t be away for
long?’
‘No, princess, I’m no longer a member of the council,’
he said. ‘I have come up for a few days.’
‘There’s something the matter with him,’ thought
Countess Nordston, glancing at his stern, serious face. ‘He
isn’t in his old argumentative mood. But I’ll draw him
out. I do love making a fool of him before Kitty, and I’ll
do it.’
‘Konstantin Dmitrievitch,’ she said to him, ‘do explain
to me, please, what’s the meaning of it. You know all
about such things. At home in our village of Kaluga all the
peasants and all the women have drunk up all they
possessed, and now they can’t pay us any rent. What’s the
meaning of that? You always praise the peasants so.’
At that instant another lady came into the room, and
Levin got up.
‘Excuse me, countess, but I really know nothing about
it, and can’t tell you anything,’ he said, and looked round
at the officer who came in behind the lady.
‘That must be Vronsky,’ thought Levin, and, to be sure
of it, glanced at Kitty. She had already had time to look at
Vronsky, and looked round at Levin. And simply from the
look in her eyes, that grew unconsciously brighter, Levin
knew that she loved that man, knew it as surely as if she
had told him so in words. But what sort of a man was he?
Now, whether for good or for ill, Levin could not choose
but remain; he must find out what the man was like
whom she loved.
There are people who, on meeting a successful rival, no
matter in what, are at once disposed to turn their backs on
everything good in him, and to see only what is bad.
There are people, on the other hand, who desire above all
to find in that lucky rival the qualities by which he has
outstripped them, and seek with a throbbing ache at heart
only what is good. Levin belonged to the second class. But
he had no difficulty in finding what was good and
attractive in Vronsky. It was apparent at the first glance.
Vronsky was a squarely built, dark man, not very tall, with
a good-humored, handsome, and exceedingly calm and
resolute face. Everything about his face and figure, from
his short-cropped black hair and freshly shaven chin down
to his loosely fitting, brand-new uniform, was simple and
at the same time elegant. Making way for the lady who
had come in, Vronsky went up to the princess and then to
Kitty.
As he approached her, his beautiful eyes shone with a
specially tender light, and with a faint, happy, and
modestly triumphant smile (so it seemed to Levin),
bowing carefully and respectfully over her, he held out his
small broad hand to her.
Greeting and saying a few words to everyone, he sat
down without once glancing at Levin, who had never
taken his eyes off him.
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‘Let me introduce you,’ said the princess, indicating
Levin. ‘Konstantin Dmitrievitch Levin, Count Alexey
Kirillovitch Vronsky.’
Vronsky got up and, looking cordially at Levin, shook
hands with him.
‘I believe I was to have dined with you this winter,’ he
said, smiling his simple and open smile; ‘but you had
unexpectedly left for the country.’
‘Konstantin Dmitrievitch despises and hates town and
us townspeople,’ said Countess Nordston.
‘My words must make a deep impression on you, since
you remember them so well,’ said Levin, and suddenly
conscious that he had said just the same thing before, he
reddened.
Vronsky looked at Levin and Countess Nordston, and
smiled.
‘Are you always in the country?’ he inquired. ‘I should
think it must be dull in the winter.’
‘It’s not dull if one has work to do; besides, one’s not
dull by oneself,’ Levin replied abruptly.
‘I am fond of the country,’ said Vronsky, noticing, and
affecting not to notice, Levin’s tone.
‘But I hope, count, you would not consent to live in
the country always,’ said Countess Nordston.
‘I don’t know; I have never tried for long. I experience
a queer feeling once,’ he went on. ‘I never longed so for
the country, Russian country, with bast shoes and
peasants, as when I was spending a winter with my mother
in Nice. Nice itself is dull enough, you know. And
indeed, Naples and Sorrento are only pleasant for a short
time. And it’s just there that Russia comes back to me
most vividly, and especially the country. It’s as though..’
He talked on, addressing both Kitty and Levin, turning
his serene, friendly eyes from one to the other, and saying
obviously just what came into his head.
Noticing that Countess Nordston wanted to say
something, he stopped short without finishing what he
had begun, and listened attentively to her.
The conversation did not flag for an instant, so that the
princess, who always kept in reserve, in case a subject
should be lacking, two heavy guns—the relative
advantages of classical and of modern education, and
universal military service—had not to move out either of
them, while Countess Nordston had not a chance of
chaffing Levin.
Levin wanted to, and could not, take part in the
general conversation; saying to himself every instant,
‘Now go,’ he still did not go, as though waiting for
something.
The conversation fell upon table-turning and spirits,
and Countess Nordston, who believed in spiritualism,
began to describe the marvels she had seen.
‘Ah, countess, you really must take me, for pity’s sake
do take me to see them! I have never seen anything
extraordinary, though I am always on the lookout for it
everywhere,’ said Vronsky, smiling.
‘Very well, next Saturday,’ answered Countess
Nordston. ‘But you, Konstantin Dmitrievitch, do you
believe in it?’ she asked Levin.
‘Why do you ask me? You know what I shall say.’
‘But I want to hear your opinion.’
‘My opinion,’ answered Levin, ‘is only that this tableturning
simply proves that educated society—so called—is
no higher than the peasants. They believe in the evil eye,
and in witchcraft and omens, while we..’
‘Oh, then you don’t believe in it?’
‘I can’t believe in it, countess.’
‘But if I’ve seen it myself?’
‘The peasant women too tell us they have seen
goblins.’
‘Then you think I tell a lie?’
And she laughed a mirthless laugh.
‘Oh, no, Masha, Konstantin Dmitrievitch said he could
not believe in it,’ said Kitty, blushing for Levin, and Levin
saw this, and, still more exasperated, would have
answered, but Vronsky with his bright frank smile rushed
to the support of the conversation, which was threatening
to become disagreeable.
‘You do not admit the conceivability at all?’ he
queried. ‘But why not? We admit the existence of
electricity, of which we know nothing. Why should there
not be some new force, still unknown to us, which..’
‘When electricity was discovered,’ Levin interrupted
hurriedly, ‘it was only the phenomenon that was
discovered, and it was unknown from what it proceeded
and what were its effects, and ages passed before its
applications were conceived. But the spiritualists have
begun with tables writing for them, and spirits appearing
to them, and have only later started saying that it is an
unknown force.’
Vronsky listened attentively to Levin, as he always did
listen, obviously interested in his words.
‘Yes, but the spiritualists say we don’t know at present
what this force is, but there is a force, and these are the
conditions in which it acts. Let the scientific men find out
what the force consists in. Not, I don’t see why there
should not be a new force, if it..’
‘Why, because with electricity,’ Levin interrupted
again, ‘every time you rub tar against wool, a recognized
phenomenon is manifested, but in this case it does not
happen every time, and so it follows it is not a natural
phenomenon.’
Feeling probably that the conversation was taking a
tone too serious for a drawing room, Vronsky made no
rejoinder, but by way of trying to change the
conversation, he smiled brightly, and turned to the ladies.
‘Do let us try at once, countess,’ he said; but Levin
would finish saying what he thought.
‘I think,’ he went on, ‘that this attempt of the
spiritualists to explain their marvels as some sort of new
natural force is most futile. They boldly talk of spiritual
force, and then try to subject it to material experiment.’
Every one was waiting for him to finish, and he felt it.
‘And I think you would be a first-rate medium,’ said
Countess Nordston; ‘there’s something enthusiastic in
you.’
Levin opened his mouth, was about to say something,
reddened, and said nothing.
‘Do let us try table-turning at once, please,’ said
Vronsky. ‘Princess, will you allow it?’
And Vronsky stood up, looking for a little table.
Kitty got up to fetch a table, and as she passed, her eyes
met Levin’s. She felt for him with her whole heart, the
more because she was pitying him for suffering of which
she was herself the cause. ‘If you can forgive me, forgive
me,’ said her eyes, ‘I am so happy.’
‘I hate them all, and you, and myself,’ his eyes
responded, and he took up his hat. But he was not
destined to escape. Just as they were arranging themselves
round the table, and Levin was on the point of retiring,
the old prince came in, and after greeting the ladies,
addressed Levin.
‘Ah!’ he began joyously. ‘Been here long, my boy? I
didn’t even know you were in town. Very glad to see
you.’ The old prince embraced Levin, and talking to him
did not observe Vronsky, who had risen, and was serenely
waiting till the prince should turn to him.
Kitty felt how distasteful her father’s warmth was to
Levin after what had happened. She saw, too, how coldly
her father responded at last to Vronsky’s bow, and how
Vronsky looked with amiable perplexity at her father, as
though trying and failing to understand how and why
anyone could be hostilely disposed towards him, and she
flushed.
‘Prince, let us have Konstantin Dmitrievitch,’ said
Countess Nordston; ‘we want to try an experiment.’
‘What experiment? Table-turning? Well, you must
excuse me, ladies and gentlemen, but to my mind it is
better fun to play the ring game,’ said the old prince,
looking at Vronsky, and guessing that it had been his
suggestion. ‘There’s some sense in that, anyway.’
Vronsky looked wonderingly at the prince with his
resolute eyes, and, with a faint smile, began immediately
talking to Countess Nordston of the great ball that was to
come off next week.
‘I hope you will be there?’ he said to Kitty. As soon as
the old prince turned away from him, Levin went out
unnoticed, and the last impression he carried away with
him of that evening was the smiling, happy face of Kitty
answering Vronsky’s inquiry about the ball.
Chapter 15
At the end of the evening Kitty told her mother of her
conversation with Levin, and in spite of all the pity she felt
for Levin, she was glad at the thought that she had
received an OFFER. She had no doubt that she had acted
rightly. But after she had gone to bed, for a long while she
could not sleep. One impression pursued her relentlessly.
It was Levin’s face, with his scowling brows, and his kind
eyes looking out in dark dejection below them, as he
stood listening to her father, and glancing at her and at
Vronsky. And she felt so sorry for him that tears came into
her eyes. But immediately she thought of the man for
whom she had given him up. She vividly recalled his
manly, resolute face, his noble self-possession, and the
good nature conspicuous in everything towards everyone.
She remembered the love for her of the man she loved,
and once more all was gladness in her soul, and she lay on
the pillow, smiling with happiness. ‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry;
but what could I do? It’s not my fault,’ she said to herself;
but an inner voice told her something else. Whether she
felt remorse at having won Levin’s love, or at having
refused him, she did not know. But her happiness was
poisoned by doubts. ‘Lord, have pity on us; Lord, have
pity on us; Lord, have pity on us!’ she repeated to herself,
till she fell asleep.
Meanwhile there took place below, in the prince’s little
library, one of the scenes so often repeated between the
parents on account of their favorite daughter.
‘What? I’ll tell you what!’ shouted the prince, waving
his arms, and at once wrapping his squirrel-lined dressinggown
round him again. ‘That you’ve no pride, no dignity;
that you’re disgracing, ruining your daughter by this
vulgar, stupid match-making!’
‘But, really, for mercy’s sake, prince, what have I
done?’ said the princess, almost crying.
She, pleased and happy after her conversation with her
daughter, had gone to the prince to say good-night as
usual, and though she had no intention of telling him of
Levin’s offer and Kitty’s refusal, still she hinted to her
husband that she fancied things were practically settled
with Vronsky, and that he would declare himself so soon
as his mother arrived. And thereupon, at those words, the
prince had all at once flown into a passion, and began to
use unseemly language.
‘What have you done? I’ll tell you what. First of all,
you’re trying to catch an eligible gentleman, and all
Moscow will be talking of it, and with good reason. If you
have evening parties, invite everyone, don’t pick out the
possible suitors. Invite all the young bucks. Engage a piano
player, and let them dance, and not as you do things
nowadays, hunting up good matches. It makes me sick,
sick to see it, and you’ve gone on till you’ve turned the
poor wench’s head. Levin’s a thousand times the better
man. As for this little Petersburg swell, they’re turned out
by machinery, all on one pattern, and all precious rubbish.
But if he were a prince of the blood, my daughter need
not run after anyone.’
‘But what have I done?’
‘Why, you’ve...’ The prince was crying wrathfully.
‘I know if one were to listen to you,’ interrupted the
princess, ‘we should never marry our daughter. If it’s to be
so, we’d better go into the country.’
‘Well, and we had better.’
‘But do wait a minute. Do I try and catch them? I
don’t try to catch them in the least. A young man, and a
very nice one, has fallen in love with her, and she, I
fancy..’
‘Oh, yes, you fancy! And how if she really is in love,
and he’s no more thinking of marriage than I am!... Oh,
that I should live to see it! Ah! spiritualism! Ah! Nice! Ah!
the ball!’ And the prince, imagining that he was
mimicking his wife, made a mincing curtsey at each word.
‘And this is how we’re preparing wretchedness for Kitty;
and she’s really got the notion into her head..’
‘But what makes you suppose so?’
‘I don’t suppose; I know. We have eyes for such things,
though women-folk haven’t. I see a man who has serious
intentions, that’s Levin: and I see a peacock, like this
feather-head, who’s only amusing himself.’
‘Oh, well, when once you get an idea into your
head!..’
‘Well, you’ll remember my words, but too late, just as
with Dolly.’
‘Well, well, we won’t talk of it,’ the princess stopped
him, recollecting her unlucky Dolly.
‘By all means, and good night!’
And signing each other with the cross, the husband and
wife parted with a kiss, feeling that they each remained of
their own opinion.
The princess had at first been quite certain that that
evening had settled Kitty’s future, and theat there could be
no doubt of Vronsky’s intentions, but her husband’s words
had disturbed her. And returning to her own room, in
terror before the unknown future, she, too, like Kitty,
repeated several times in her heart, ‘Lord, have pity; Lord,
have pity; Lord, have pity.’
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Chapter 16
Vronsky had never had a real home life. His mother
had been in her youth a brilliant society woman, who had
had during her married life, and still more afterwards,
many love affairs notorious in the whole fashionable
world. His father he scarcely remembered, and he had
been educated in the Corps of Pages.
Leaving the school very young as a brilliant officer, he
had at once got into the circle of wealthy Petersburg army
men. Although he did go more or less into Petersburg
society, his love affairs had always hitherto been outside it.
In Moscow he had for the first time felt, after his
luxurious and coarse life at Petersburg, all the charm of
intimacy with a sweet and innocent girl of his own rank,
who cared for him. It never even entered his head that
there could be any harm in his relations with Kitty. At
balls he danced principally with her. He was a constant
visitor at their house. He talked to her as people
commonly do talk in society—all sorts of nonsense, but
nonsense to which he could not help attaching a special
meaning in her case. Although he said nothing to her that
he could not have said before everybody, he felt that she
was becoming more and more dependent upon him, and
the more he felt this, the better he liked it, and the
tenderer was his feeling for her. He did not know that his
mode of behavior in relation to Kitty had a definite
character, that it is courting young girls with no intention
of marriage, and that such courting is one of the evil
actions common among brilliant young men such as he
was. It seemed to him that he was the first who had
discovered this pleasure, and he was enjoying his
discovery.
If he could have heard what her parents were saying
that evening, if he could have put himself at the point ov
view of the family and have heard that Kitty would be
unhappy if he did not marry her, he would have been
greatly astonished, and would not have believed it. He
could not believe that what gave such great and delicate
pleasure to him, and above all to her, could be wrong. Still
less could he have believed that he ought to marry.
Marriage had never presented itself to him as a
possibility. He not only disliked family life, but a family,
and especially a husband was, in accordance with the
views general in the bachelor world in which he lived,
conceived as something alien, repellant, and, above all,
ridiculous.
But though Vronsky had not the least suspicion what
the parents were saying, he felt on coming away from the
Shtcherbatskys’ that the secret spiritual bond which existed
between him and Kitty had grown so much stronger that
evening that some step must be taken. But what step could
and ought to be taken he could not imagine.
‘What is so exquisite,’ he thought, as he returned from
the Shtcherbatskys’, carrying away with him, as he always
did, a delicious feeling of purity and freshness, arising
partly from the fact that he had not been smoking for a
whole evening, and with it a new feeling of tenderness at
her love for him—‘what is so exquisite is that not a word
has been said by me or by her, but we understand each
other so well in this unseen language of looks and tones,
that this evening more clearly than ever she told me she
loves me. And how secretly, simply, and most of all, how
trustfully! I feel myself better, purer. I feel that I have a
heart, and that there is a great deal of good in me. Those
sweet, loving eyes! When she said: Indeed I do...’
‘Well, what then? Oh, nothing. It’s good for me, and
good for her.’ And he began wondering where to finish
the evening.
He passed in review of the places he might go to.
‘Club? a game of bezique, champagne with Ignatov? No,
I’m not going. Chateau des Fleurs; there I shall find
Oblonsky, songs, the cancan. No, I’m sick of it. That’s
why I like the Shtcherbatskys’, that I’m growing better. I’ll
go home.’ He went straight to his room at Dussot’s Hotel,
ordered supper, and then undressed, and as soon as his
head touched the pillow, fell into a sound sleep.
Chapter 17
Next day at eleven o’clock in the morning Vronsky
drove to the station of the Petersburg railway to meet his
mother, and the first person he came across on the great
flight of steps was Oblonsky, who was expecting his sister
by the same train.
‘Ah! your excellency!’ cried Oblonsky, ‘whom are you
meeting?’
‘My mother,’ Vronsky responded, smiling, as everyone
did who met Oblonsky. He shook hands with him, and
together they ascended the steps. ‘She is to be here from
Petersburg today.’
‘I was looking out for you till two o’clock last night.
Where did you go after the Shtcherbatskys’?’
‘Home,’ answered Vronsky. ‘I must own I felt so well
content yesterday after the Shtcherbatskys’ that I didn’t
care to go anywhere.’
‘I know a gallant steed by tokens sure,
And by his eyes I know a youth in love,’
declaimed Stepan Arkadyevitch, just as he had done
before to Levin.
Vronsky smiled with a look that seemed to say that he
did not deny it, but he promptly changed the subject.
‘And whom are you meeting?’ he asked.
‘I? I’ve come to meet a pretty woman,’ said Oblonsky.
‘You don’t say so!’
‘Honi soit qui mal y pense! My sister Anna.’
‘Ah! that’s Madame Karenina,’ said Vronsky.
‘You know her, no doubt?’
‘I think I do. Or perhaps not...I really am not sure,’
Vronsky answered heedlessly, with a vague recollection of
something stiff and tedious evoked by the name Karenina.
‘But Alexey Alexandrovitch, my celebrated brother-inlaw,
you surely must know. All the world knows him.’
‘I know him by reputation and by sight. I know that
he’s clever, learned, religious somewhat.... But you know
that’s not...not in my line,’ said Vronsky in English.
‘Yes, he’s a very remarkable man; rather a conservative,
but a splendid man,’ observed Stepan Arkadyevitch, ‘a
splendid man.’
‘Oh, well, so much the better for him,’ said Vronsky
smiling. ‘Oh, you’ve come,’ he said, addressing a tall old
footman of his mother’s, standing at the door; ‘come
here.’
Besides the charm Oblonsky had in general for
everyone, Vronsky had felt of late specially drawn to him
by the fact that in his imagination he was associated with
Kitty.
‘Well, what do you say? Shall we give a supper on
Sunday for the diva?’ he said to him with a smile, taking
his arm.
‘Of course. I’m collecting subscriptions. Oh, did yo
make the acquaintance of my friend Levin?’ asked Stepan
Arkadyevitch.
‘Yes; but he left rather early.’
‘He’s a capital fellow,’ pursued Oblonsky. ‘Isn’t he?’
‘I don’t know why it is,’ responded Vronsky, ‘in all
Moscow people—present company of course excepted,’
he put in jestingly, ‘there’s something uncompromising.
They are all on the defensive, lose their tempers, as though
they all want to make one feel something..’
‘Yes, that’s true, it is so,’ said Stepan Arkadyevitch,
laughing good-humoredly.
‘Will the train soon be in?’ Vronsky asked a railway
official.
‘The train’s signaled,’ answered the man.
The approach of the train was more and more evident
by the preparatory bustle in the station, the rush of porters,
the movement of policemen and attendants, and people
meeting the train. Through the frosty vapor could be seen
workmen in short sheepskins and soft felt boots crossing
the rails of the curving line. The hiss of the boiler could be
heard on the distant rails, and the rumble of something
heavy.
‘No,’ said Stepan Arkadyevitch, who felt a great
inclination to tell Vronsky of Levin’s intentions in regard
to Kitty. ‘No, you’ve not got a true impression of Levin.
He’s a very nervous man, and is sometimes out of humor,
it’s true, but then he is often very nice. He’s such a true,
honest nature, and a heart of gold. But yesterday there
were special reasons,’ pursued Stepan Arkadyevitch, with a
meaning smile, totally oblivious of the genuine sympathy
he had felt the day before for his friend, and feeling the
same sympathy now, only for Vronsky. ‘Yes, there were
reasons why he could not help being either particularly
happy or particularly unhappy.’
Vronsky stood still and asked directly: ‘How so? Do
you mean he made your belle-soeur an offer yesterday?’
‘Maybe,’ said Stepan Arkadyevitch. ‘I fancied
something of the sort yesterday. Yes, if he went away
early, and was out of humor too, it must mean it.... He’s
been so long in love, and I’m very sorry for him.’
‘So that’s it! I should imagine, though, she might
reckon on a better match,’ said Vronsky, drawing himself
up and walking about again, ‘though I don’t know him, of
course,’ he added. ‘Yes, that is a hateful position! That’s
why most fellows prefer to have to do with Klaras. If you
don’t succeed with them it only proves that you’ve not
enough cash, but in this case one’s dignity’s at stake. But
here’s the train.’
The engine had already whistled in the distance. A few
instants later the platform was quivering, and with puffs of
steam hanging low in the air from the frost, the engine
rolled up, with the lever of the middle wheel rhythmically
moving up and down, and the stooping figure of the
engine-driver covered with frost. Behind the tender,
setting the platform more and more slowly swaying, came
the luggage van with a dog whining in it. At last the
passenger carriages rolled in, oscillating before coming to a
standstill.
A smart guard jumped out, giving a whistle, and after
him one by one the impatient passengers began to get
down: an officer of the guards, holding himself erect, and
looking severely about him; a nimble little merchant with
a satchel, smiling gaily; a peasant with a sack over his
shoulder.
Vronsky, standing beside Oblonsky, watched the
carriages and the passengers, totally oblivious of his
mother. What he had just heard about Kitty excited and
delighted him. Unconsciously he arched his chest, and his
eyes flashed. He felt himself a conqueror.
‘Countess Vronskaya is in that compartment,’ said the
smart guard, going up to Vronsky.
The guard’s words roused him, and forced him to think
of his mother and his approaching meeting with her. He
did not in his heart respect his mother, and without
acknowledging it to himself, he did not love her, though
in accordance with the ideas of the set in which he lived,
and with his own education, he could not have conceived
of any behavior to his mother not in the highest degree
respectful and obedient, and the more externally obedient
and respectful his behavior, the less in his heart he
respected and loved her.
Chapter 18
Vronsky followed the guard to the carriage, and at the
door of the compartment he stopped short to make room
for a lady who was getting out.
With the insight of a man of the world, from one
glance at this lady’s appearance Vronsky classified her as
belonging to the best society. He begged pardon, and was
getting into the carriage, but felt he must glance at her
once more; not that she was very beautiful, not on
account of the elegance and modest grace which were
apparent in her whole figure, but because in the
expression of her charming face, as she passed close by
him, there was something peculiarly caressing and soft. As
he looked round, she too turned her head. Her shining
gray eyes, that looked dark from the thick lashes, rested
with friendly attention on his face, as though she were
recognizing him, and then promptly turned away to the
passing crowd, as though seeking someone. In that brief
look Vronsky had time to notice the suppressed eagerness
which played over her face, and flitted between the
brilliant eyes and the faint smile that curved her red lips. It
was as though her nature were so brimming over with
something that against her will it showed itself now in the
flash of her eyes, and now in her smile. Deliberately she
shrouded the light in her eyes, but it shone against her will
in the faintly perceptible smile.
Vronsky stepped into the carriage. His mother, a driedup
old lady with black eyes and ringlets, screwed up her
eyes, scanning her son, and smiled slightly with her thin
lips. Getting up from the seat and handing her maid a bag,
she gave her little wrinkled hand to her son to kiss, and
lifting his head from her hand, kissed him on the cheek.
‘You got my telegram? Quite well? Thank God.’
‘You had a good journey?’ said her son, sitting down
beside her, and involuntarily listening to a woman’s voice
outside the door. He knew it was the voice of the lady he
had met at the door.
‘All the same I don’t agree with you,’ said the lady’s
voice.
‘It’s the Petersburg view, madame.’
‘Not Petersburg, but simply feminine,’ she responded.
‘Well, well, allow me to kiss your hand.’
‘Good-bye, Ivan Petrovitch. And could you see if my
brother is here, and send him to me?’ said the lady in the
doorway, and stepped back again into the compartment.
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‘Well, have you found your brother?’ said Countess
Vronskaya, addressing the lady.
Vronsky understood now that this was Madame
Karenina.
‘Your brother is here,’ he said, standing up. ‘Excuse
me, I did not know you, and, indeed, our acquaintance
was so slight,’ said Vronsky, bowing, ‘that no doubt you
do not remember me.’
‘Oh, no,’ said she, ‘I should have known you because
your mother and I have been talking, I think, of nothing
but you all the way.’ As she spoke she let the eagerness
that would insist on coming out show itself in her smile.
‘And still no sign of my brother.’
‘Do call him, Alexey,’ said the old countess. Vronsky
stepped out onto the platform and shouted:
‘Oblonsky! Here!’
Madame Karenina, however, did not wait for her
brother, but catching sight of him she stepped out with
her light, resolute step. And as soon as her brother had
reached her, with a gesture that struck Vronsky by its
decision and its grace, she flung her left arm around his
neck, drew him rapidly to her, and kissed him warmly.
Vronsky gazed, never taking his eyes from her, and smiled,
he could not have said why. But recollecting that his
mother was waiting for him, he went back again into the
carriage.
‘She’s very sweet, isn’t she?’ said the countess of
Madame Karenina. ‘Her husband put her with me, and I
was delighted to have her. We’ve been talking all the way.
And so you, I hear...vous filez le parfait amour. Tant
mieux, mon cher, tant mieux.’
‘I don’t know what you are referring to, maman,’ he
answered coldly. ‘Come, maman, let us go.’
Madame Karenina entered the carriage again to say
good-bye to the countess.
‘Well, countess, you have met your son, and I my
brother,’ she said. ‘And all my gossip is exhausted. I should
have nothing more to tell you.’
‘Oh, no,’ said the countess, taking her hand. ‘I could
go all around the world with you and never be dull. You
are one of those delightful women in whose company it’s
sweet to be silent as well as to talk. Now please don’t fret
over your son; you can’t expect never to be parted.’
Madame Karenina stood quite still, holding herself very
erect, and her eyes were smiling.
‘Anna Arkadyevna,’ the countess said in explanation to
her son, ‘has a little son eight years old, I believe, and she
has never been parted from him before, and she keeps
fretting over leaving him.’
‘Yes, the countess and I have been talking all the time,
I of my son and she of hers,’ said Madame Karenina, and
again a smile lighted up her face, a caressing smile
intended for him.
‘I am afraid that you must have been dreadfully bored,’
he said, promptly catching the ball of coquetry she had
flung him. But apparently she did not care to pursue the
conversation in that strain, and she turned to the old
countess.
‘Thank you so much. The time has passed so quickly.
Good-bye, countess.’
‘Good-bye, my love,’ answered the countess. ‘Let me
have a kiss of your pretty face. I speak plainly, at my age,
and I tell you simply that I’ve lost my heart to you.’
Stereotyped as the phrase was, Madame Karenina
obviously believed it and was delighted by it. She flushed,
bent down slightly, and put her cheek to the countess’s
lips, drew herself up again, and with the same smile
fluttering between her lips and her eyes, she gave her hand
to Vronsky. He pressed the little hand she gave him, and
was delighted, as though at something special, by the
energetic squeeze with which she freely and vigorously
shook his hand. She went out with the rapid step which
bore her rather fully-developed figure with such strange
lightness.
‘Very charming,’ said the countess.
That was just what her son was thinking. His eyes
followed her till her graceful figure was out of sight, and
then the smile remained on his face. He saw out of the
window how she went up to her brother, put her arm in
his, and began telling him something eagerly, obviously
something that had nothing to do with him, Vronsky, and
at that he felt annoyed.
‘Well, maman, are you perfectly well?’ he repeated,
turning to his mother.
‘Everything has been delightful. Alexander has been
very good, and Marie has grown very pretty. She’s very
interesting.’
And she began telling him again of what interested her
most—the christening of her grandson, for which she had
been staying in Petersburg, and the special favor shown
her elder son by the Tsar.
‘Here’s Lavrenty,’ said Vronsky, looking out of the
window; ‘now we can go, if you like.’
The old butler who had traveled with the countess,
came to the carriage to announce that everything was
ready, and the countess got up to go.
‘Come; there’s not such a crowd now,’ said Vronsky.
The maid took a handbag and the lap dog, the butler
and a porter the other baggage. Vronsky gave his mother
his arm; but just as they were getting out of the carriage
several men ran suddenly by with panic-stricken faces.
The station-master, too, ran by in his extraordinary
colored cap. Obviously something unusual had happened.
The crowd who had left the train were running back
again.
‘What?... What?... Where?... Flung himself!...
Crushed!...’ was heard among the crowd. Stepan
Arkadyevitch, with his sister on his arm, turned back.
They too looked scared, and stopped at the carriage door
to avoid the crowd.
The ladies go in, while Vronsky and Stepan
Arkadyevitch followed the crowd to find out details of the
disaster.
A guard, either dunk or too much muffled up in the
bitter frost, had not heard the train moving back, and had
been crushed.
Before Vronsky and Oblonsky came back the ladies
heard the facts from the butler.
Oblonsky and Vronsky had both seen the mutilated
corpse. Oblonsky was evidently upset. He frowned and
seemed ready to cry.
‘Ah, how awful! Ah, Anna, if you had seen it! Ah, how
awful!’ he said.
Vronsky did not speak; his handsome face was serious,
but perfectly composed.
‘Oh, if you had seen it, countess,’ said Stepan
Arkadyevitch. ‘And his wife was there.... It was awful to
see her!.... She flung herself on the body. They say he was
the only support of an immense family. How awful!’
‘Couldn’t one do anything for her?’ said Madame
Karenina in an agitated whisper.
Vronsky glanced at her, and immediately got out of the
carriage.
‘I’ll be back directly, maman,’ he remarked, turning
round in the doorway.
When he came back a few minutes later, Stepan
Arkadyevitch was already in conversation with the
countess about the new singer, while the countess was
impatiently looking towards the door, waiting for her son.
‘Now let us be off,’ said Vronsky, coming in. They
went out together. Vronsky was in front with his mother.
Behind walked Madame Karenina with her brother. Just as
they were going out of the station the station-master
overtook Vronsky.
‘You gave my assistant two hundred roubles. Would
you kindly explain for whose benefit you intend them?’
‘For the widow,’ said Vronsky, shrugging his shoulders.
‘I should have thought there was no need to ask.’
‘You gave that?’ cried Oblonsky, behind, and, pressing
his sister’s hand, he added: ‘Very nice, very nice! Isn’t he a
splendid fellow? Good-bye, countess.’
And he and his sister stood still, looking for her maid.
When they went out the Vronsky’s carriage had already
driven away. People coming in were still talking of what
happened.
‘What a horrible death!’ said a gentleman, passing by.
‘They say he was cut in two pieces.’
‘On the contrary, I think it’s the easiest—
instantaneous,’ observed another.
‘How is it they don’t take proper precautions?’ said a
third.
Madame Karenina seated herself in the carriage, and
Stepan Arkadyevitch saw with surprise that her lips were
quivering, and she was with difficulty restraining her tears.
‘What is it, Anna?’ he asked, when they had driven a
few hundred yards.
‘It’s an omen of evil,’ she said.
‘What nonsense!’ said Stepan Arkadyevitch. ‘You’ve
come, that’s the chief thing. You can’t conceive how I’m
resting my hopes on you.’
‘Have you known Vronsky long?’ she asked.
‘Yes. You know we’re hoping he will marry Kitty.’
‘Yes?’ said Anna softly. ‘Come now, let us talk of you,’
she added, tossing her head, as though she would
physically shake off something superfluous oppressing her.
‘Let us talk of your affairs. I got your letter, and here I
am.’
‘Yes, all my hopes are in you,’ said Stepan
Arkadyevitch.
‘Well, tell me all about it.’
And Stepan Arkadyevitch began to tell his story.
On reaching home Oblonsky helped his sister out,
sighed, pressed her hand, and set off to his office.
Chapter 19
When Anna went into the room, Dolly was sitting in
the little drawing-room with a white-headed fat little boy,
already like his father, giving him a lesson in French
reading. As the boy read, he kept twisting and trying to
tear off a button that was nearly off his jacket. His mother
had several times taken his hand from it, but the fat little
hand went back to the button again. His mother pulled
the button off and put it in her pocket.
‘Keep your hands still, Grisha,’ she said, and she took
up her work, a coverlet she had long been making. She
always set to work on it at depressed moments, and now
she knitted at it nervously, twitching her fingers and
counting the stitches. Though she had sent word the day
before to her husband that it was nothing to her whether
his sister came or not, she had made everything ready for
her arrival, and was expecting her sister-in-law with
emotion.
Dolly was crushed by her sorrow, utterly swallowed up
by it. Still she did not forget that Anna, her sister-in-law,
was the wife of one of the most important personages in
Petersburg, and was a Petersburg grande dame. And,
thanks to this circumstance, she did not carry out her
threat to her husband—that is to say, she remembered that
her sister-in-law was coming. ‘And, after all, Anna is in no
wise to blame,’ thought Dolly. ‘I know nothing of her
except the very best, and I have seen nothing but kindness
and affection from her towards myself.’ It was true that as
far as she could recall her impressions at Petersburg at the
Karenins’, she did not like their household itself; there was
something artificial in the whole framework of their family
life. ‘But why should I not receive her? If only she doesn’t
take it into her head to console me!’ thought Dolly. ‘All
consolation and counsel and Christian forgiveness, all that
I have thought over a thousand times, and it’s all no use.’
All these days Dolly had been alone with her children.
She did not want to talk of her sorrow, but with that
sorrow in her heart she could not talk of outside matters.
She knew that in one way or another she would tell Anna
everything, and she was alternately glad at the thought of
speaking freely, and angry at the necessity of speaking of
her humiliation with her, his sister, and of hearing her
ready-made phrases of good advice and comfort. She had
been on the lookout for her, glancing at her watch every
minute, and, as so often happens, let slip just that minute
when her visitor arrived, so that she did not hear the bell.
Catching a sound of skirts and light steps at the door,
she looked round, and her care-worn face unconsciously
expressed not gladness, but wonder. She got up and
embraced her sister-in-law.
‘What, here already!’ she said as she kissed her.
‘Dolly, how glad I am to see you!’
‘I am glad, too,’ said Dolly, faintly smiling, and trying
by the expression of Anna’s face to find out whether she
knew. ‘Most likely she knows,’ she thought, noticing the
sympathy in Anna’s face. ‘Well, come along, I’ll take you
to your room,’ she went on, trying to defer as long as
possible the moment of confidences.
‘Is this Grisha? Heavens, how he’s grown!’ said Anna;
and kissing him, never taking her eyes off Dolly, she stood
still and flushed a little. ‘No, please, let us stay here.’
She took off her kerchief and her hat, and catching it in
a lock of her black hair, which was a mass of curls, she
tossed her head and shook her hair down.
‘You are radiant with health and happiness!’ said Dolly,
almost with envy.
‘I?.... Yes,’ said Anna. ‘Merciful heavens, Tanya!
You’re the same age as my Seryozha,’ she added,
addressing the little girl as she ran in. She took her in her
arms and kissed her. ‘Delightful child, delightful! Show me
them all.’
She mentioned them, not only remembering the
names, but the years, months, characters, illnesses of all the
children, and Dolly could not but appreciate that.
‘Very well, we will go to them,’ she said. ‘It’s a pity
Vassya’s asleep.’
After seeing the children, They sat down, alone now,
in the drawing room, to coffee. Anna took the tray, and
then pushed it away from her.
‘Dolly,’ she said, ‘he has told me.’
Dolly looked coldly at Anna; she was waiting now for
phrases of conventional sympathy, but Anna said nothing
of the sort.
‘Dolly, dear,’ she said, ‘I don’t want to speak for him to
you, nor to try to comfort you; that’s impossible. But,
darling, I’m simply sorry, sorry from my heart for you!’
Under the thick lashes of her shining eyes tears
suddenly glittered. She moved nearer to her sister-in-law
and took her hand in her vigorous little hand. Dolly did
not shrink away, but her face did not lose its frigid
expression. She said:
‘To comfort me’s impossible. Everything’s lost after
what has happened, everything’s over!’
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And directly she had said this, her face suddenly
softened. Anna lifted the wasted, thin hand of Dolly,
kissed it and said:
‘But, Dolly, what’s to be done, what’s to be done?
How is it best to act in this awful position—that’s what
you must think of.’
‘All’s over, and there’s nothing more,’ said Dolly. ‘And
the worst of all is, you see, that I can’t cast him off: there
are the children, I am tied. And I can’t live with him! it’s a
torture to me to see him.’
‘Dolly, darling, he has spoken to me, but I want to hear
it from you: tell me about it.’
Dolly looked at her inquiringly.
Sympathy and love unfeigned were visible on Anna’s
face.
‘Very well,’ she said all at once. ‘But I will tell you it
from the beginning. You know how I was married. With
the education mamma gave us I was more than innocent, I
was stupid. I knew nothing. I know they say men tell their
wives of their former lives, but Stiva’—she corrected
herself—‘Stepan Arkadyevitch told me nothing. You’ll
hardly believe it, but till now I imagined that I was the
only woman he had known. So I lived eight years. You
must understand that I was so far from suspecting
infidelity, I regarded it as impossible, and then— try to
imagine it—with such ideas, to find out suddenly all the
horror, all the loathsomeness.... You must try and
understand me. To be fully convinced of one’s happiness,
and all at once...’ continued Dolly, holding back her sobs,
‘to get a letter...his letter to his mistress, my governess.
No, it’s too awful!’ She hastily pulled out her handkerchief
and hid her face in it. ‘I can understand being carried away
by feeling,’ she went on after a brief silence, ‘but
deliberately, slyly deceiving me...and with whom?... To go
on being my husband together with her...it’s awful! You
can’t understand..’
‘Oh, yes, I understand! I understand! Dolly, dearest, I
do understand,’ said Anna, pressing her hand.
‘And do you imagine he realizes all the awfulness of my
position?’ Dolly resumed. ‘Not the slightest! He’s happy
and contented.’
‘Oh, no!’ Anna interposed quickly. ‘He’s to be pitied,
he’s weighed down by remorse..’
‘Is he capable of remorse?’ Dolly interrupted, gazing
intently into her sister-in-law’s face.
‘Yes. I know him. I could not look at him without
feeling sorry for him. We both know him. He’s goodhearted,
but he’s proud, and now he’s so humiliated. What
touched me most...’ (and here Anna guessed what would
touch Dolly most) ‘he’s tortured by two things: that he’s
ashamed for the children’s sake, and that, loving you—yes,
yes, loving you beyond everything on earth,’ she hurriedly
interrupted Dolly, who would have answered— ‘he has
hurt you, pierced you to the heart. ‘No, no, she cannot
forgive me,’ he keeps saying.’
Dolly looked dreamily away beyond her sister-in-law as
she listened to her words.
‘Yes, I can see that his position is awful; it’s worse for
the guilty than the innocent,’ she said, ‘if he feels that all
the misery comes from his fault. But how am I to forgive
him, how am I to be his wife again after her? For me to
live with him now would be torture, just because I love
my past love for him..’
And sobs cut short her words. But as though of set
design, each time she was softened she began to speak
again of what exasperated her.
‘She’s young, you see, she’s pretty,’ she went on. ‘Do
you know, Anna, my youth and my beauty are gone,
taken by whom? By him and his children. I have worked
for him, and all I had has gone in his service, and now of
course any fresh, vulgar creature has more charm for him.
No doubt they talked of me together, or, worse still, they
were silent. Do you understand?’
Again her eyes glowed with hatred.
‘And after that he will tell me.... What! can I believe
him? Never! No, everything is over, everything that once
made my comfort, the reward of my work, and my
sufferings.... Would you believe it, I was teaching Grisha
just now: once this was a joy to me, now it is a torture.
What have I to strive and toil for? Why are the children
here? What’s so awful is that all at once my heart’s turned,
and instead of love and tenderness, I have nothing but
hatred for him; yes, hatred. I could kill him.’
‘Darling Dolly, I understand, but don’t torture yourself.
You are so distressed, so overwrought, that you look at
many things mistakenly.’
Dolly grew calmer, and for two minutes both were
silent.
‘What’s to be done? Think for me, Anna, help me. I
have thought over everything, and I see nothing.’
Anna could think of nothing, but her heart responded
instantly to each word, to each change of expression of her
sister-in-law.
‘One thing I would say,’ began Anna. ‘I am his sister, I
know his character, that faculty of forgetting everything,
everything’ (she waved her hand before her forehead),
‘that faculty for being completely carried away, but for
completely repenting too. He cannot believe it, he cannot
comprehend now how he can have acted as he did.’
‘No; he understands, he understood!’ Dolly broke in.
‘But I...you are forgetting me...does it make it easier for
me?’
‘Wait a minute. When he told me, I will own I did not
realize all the awfulness of your position. I saw nothing
but him, and that the family was broken up. I felt sorry for
him, but after talking to you, I see it, as a woman, quite
differently. I see your agony, and I can’t tell you how
sorry I am for you! But, Dolly, darling, I fully realize your
sufferings, only there is one thing I don’t know; I don’t
know...I don’t know how much love there is still in your
heart for him. That you know—whether there is enough
for you to be able to forgive him. If there is, forgive him!’
‘No,’ Dolly was beginning, but Anna cut her short,
kissing her hand once more.
‘I know more of the world than you do,’ she said. ‘I
know how met like Stiva look at it. You speak of his
talking of you with her. That never happened. Such men
are unfaithful, but their home and wife are sacred to them.
Somehow or other these women are still looked on with
contempt by them, and do not touch on their feeling for
their family. They draw a sort of line that can’t be crossed
between them and their families. I don’t understand it, but
it is so.’
‘Yes, but he has kissed her..’
‘Dolly, hush, darling. I saw Stiva when he was in love
with you. I remember the time when he came to me and
cried, talking of you, and all the poetry and loftiness of his
feeling for you, and I know that the longer he has lived
with you the loftier you have been in his eyes. You know
we have sometimes laughed at him for putting in at every
word: ‘Dolly’s a marvelous woman.’ You have always
been a divinity for him, and you are that still, and this has
not been an infidelity of the heart..’
‘But if it is repeated?’
‘It cannot be, as I understand it..’
‘Yes, but could you forgive it?’
‘I don’t know, I can’t judge.... Yes, I can,’ said Anna,
thinking a moment; and grasping the position in her
thought and weighing it in her inner balance, she added:
‘Yes, I can, I can, I can. Yes, I could forgive it. I could not
be the same, no; but I could forgive it, and forgive it as
though it had never been, never been at all..’
‘Oh, of course,’ Dolly interposed quickly, as though
saying what she had more than once thought, ‘else it
would not be forgiveness. If one forgives, it must be
completely, completely. Come, let us go; I’ll take you to
your room,’ she said, getting up, and on the way she
embraced Anna. ‘My dear, how glad I am you came. It
has made things better, ever so much better
Anna Karenina | Leo Tolstoy
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