by Leo Tolstoy
'And what is it to you - two days? And he's such a sweet, intelligent old fellow. He'll pull this tooth of yours before you notice it.'
Standing through the first liturgy, Levin tried to refresh in himself his youthful memories of the strong religious feeling he had experienced between the ages of sixteen and seventeen. But he could see at once that it was utterly impossible for him. He tried to look at it as a meaningless, empty custom, like the custom of paying visits; but he felt that he could not do that either. With regard to religion, Levin, like most of his contemporaries, was in a very uncertain position. He could not believe, yet at the same time he was not firmly convinced that it was all incorrect. And therefore, being unable either to believe in the meaningfulness of what he was doing or to look at it indifferently as at an empty formality, he experienced, all through this time of preparation, a feeling of awkwardness and shame at doing what he himself did not understand and therefore, as his inner voice kept telling him, something false and bad.
During the services, he first listened to the prayers, trying to ascribe a meaning to them that did not disagree with his views, then, feeling that he could not understand and had to condemn them, he tried not to listen, but occupied himself with his own thoughts, observations and memories, which during this idle standing in church wandered with extreme vividness through his head.
He stood through the liturgy, vigil and compline, and the next day, getting up earlier than usual, without having tea, went to the church at eight o'clock in the morning to hear the morning prayers and confess.
There was no one in the church except a begging soldier, two little old women and the clergy.
A young deacon, the two halves of his long back sharply outlined under his thin cassock, met him and, going over to a little table, began at once to read the prayers. As the reading went on, and especially at the frequent and rapid repetition of the same words, 'Lord have mercy,' which sounded like 'Lordamerse, Lordamerse,' Levin felt that his mind was locked and sealed and should not be touched or stirred now, otherwise confusion would come of it, and therefore, standing behind the deacon, without listening or fathoming, he went on having his own thoughts. 'Amazing how much expression there is in her hand,' he thought, recalling how they had sat at the corner table the day before. They found nothing to talk about, as almost always during that time, and she, placing her hand on the table, kept opening and closing it, and laughed as she watched its movement. He recalled kissing that hand and afterwards studying the merging lines on its pink palm. 'Again "Lordamerse,"' thought Levin, crossing himself, bowing and looking at the supple movement of the bowing deacon's back. 'Then she took my hand and studied the lines: "You have a nice hand," she said.' And he looked at his own hand and at the deacon's stubby hand. 'Yes, it will soon be over now,' he thought. 'No, it seems he's starting again,' he thought, listening to the prayers. 'No, it's the end; there he's bowing to the ground. That's always just before the end.'
The hand in its velveteen cuff having discreetly received a three-rouble note, the deacon said he would register it and, briskly stamping with his new boots over the flagstones of the empty church, went into the sanctuary. A moment later he peeked out and beckoned to Levin. The thought locked up till then in Levin's head began to stir, but he hastened to drive it away. 'It will work out somehow,' he reflected and walked to the ambo.[2] He went up the steps and, turning to the right, saw the priest. An elderly man with a thin, greying beard and tired, kindly eyes, he was standing by a lectern leafing through the service book. After bowing slightly to Levin, he at once began reading prayers in an accustomed voice. When he finished them, he bowed to the ground and turned to face Levin.
'Christ stands here invisibly and receives your confession,' he said, pointing to the crucifix. 'Do you believe everything that is taught by the holy apostolic Church?' the priest went on, turning his eyes from Levin's face and folding his hands under the stole.
'I have doubted, I doubt everything,' Levin said, in a voice he himself found unpleasant, and fell silent.
The priest waited a few seconds to see whether he would say anything more, and then, closing his eyes, in a quick, provincial patter with a stress on the os, said:
'Doubts are in the nature of human weakness, but we must pray that God in His mercy will strengthen us. What particular sins do you have?' he added without the slightest pause, as if trying not to waste time.
'My chief sin is doubt. I doubt everything and for the most part live in doubt.'
'Doubt is in the nature of human weakness,' the priest repeated the same words. 'What is it that you doubt predominantly?'
'I doubt everything. I sometimes even doubt the existence of God,' Levin said involuntarily, and was horrified at the impropriety of what he had said. But Levin's words did not seem to make any impression on the priest.
'What doubts can there be of the existence of God?' he hastened to say with a barely perceptible smile.
Levin was silent.
'What doubt can you have of the existence of the Creator, when you behold His creations?' the priest went on in a quick, habitual manner.
'Who adorned the heavenly firmament with lights? Who clothed the earth in its beauty? How can it be without a creator?' he said, glancing questioningly at Levin.
Levin felt that it would be improper to enter into a philosophical debate with a priest, and therefore he said in answer only what had a direct bearing on the question.
'I don't know,' he said.
'You don't know? How then can you doubt that God created everything?' the priest said in merry perplexity.
'I don't understand anything,' Levin said, blushing and feeling that his words were stupid and could not help being stupid in such a situation.
'Pray to God and ask Him. Even the holy fathers had doubts and asked God to confirm their faith. The devil has great power, and we mustn't give in to him. Pray to God, ask Him. Pray to God,' he repeated hurriedly.
The priest was silent for a time, as if pondering.
'You are, as I have heard, about to enter into matrimony with the daughter of my parishioner and spiritual son, Prince Shcherbatsky?' he added with a smile. 'A wonderful girl!'
'Yes,' Levin answered, blushing for the priest. 'Why does he need to ask about it at confession?' he thought.
And the priest, as if answering his thought, said to him:
'You are about to enter into matrimony, and it may be that God will reward you with offspring, is it not so? Well, then, what sort of upbringing can you give your little ones, if you don't overcome in yourself the temptation of the devil who is drawing you into unbelief?' he said in mild reproach. 'If you love your child, then, being a good father, you will not desire only wealth, luxury and honour for him; you will desire his salvation, his spiritual enlightenment with the light of Truth. Is it not so? What answer will you give when an innocent child asks you: "Papa! Who created everything that delights me in this world - the earth, the waters, the sun, the flowers, the grass?" Will you really say to him, "I don't know"? You cannot not know, since the Lord God in His great mercy has revealed it to you. Or else your little one will ask you: "What awaits me in the life beyond the grave?" What will you tell him, if you don't know anything? How will you answer him? Will you leave him to the temptation of the world and the devil? That's not good!' he said and stopped, inclining his head to one side and looking at Levin with meek, kindly eyes.
Levin made no reply, now not because he did not want to get into an argument with a priest, but because no one had ever asked him such questions; and before his little ones asked him such questions, there was still time to think how to answer.
'You are entering upon a time of life,' the priest went on, 'when one must choose a path and keep to it. Pray to God that in His goodness He may help you and have mercy on you,' he concluded. 'May our Lord and God Jesus Christ, through the grace and bounties of His love for mankind, forgive you, child...' and, having finished the prayer of absolution, the priest blessed and dismissed hi
m.
On returning home that day, Levin experienced the joyful feeling of having ended his awkward situation and ended it in such a way that he had not needed to lie. Apart from that, he was left with the vague recollection that what this kindly and nice old man had said was not at all as stupid as it had seemed to him at first, and that there was something in it that needed to be grasped.
'Not now, of course,' Levin thought, 'but some time later on.' Levin felt more than ever that there was something unclear and impure in his soul, and that with regard to religion he was in the same position that he so clearly saw and disliked in others and for which he reproached his friend Sviyazhsky.
Levin was especially happy that evening, which he spent with his fiancee at Dolly's, and, explaining his excited state to Stepan Arkadyich, said that he was as happy as a dog that has been taught to jump through a hoop and, having finally understood and done what was demanded of it, squeals, wags its tail, and leaps in rapture on to the tables and windowsills.
II
On the day of the wedding Levin, according to custom (the princess and Darya Alexandrovna strictly insisted on fulfilling all customs), did not see his fiancee and dined in his hotel with a chance gathering of three bachelors: Sergei Ivanovich, Katavasov, his university friend, now a professor of natural science, whom Levin had met in the street and dragged home with him, and Chirikov, one of his groomsmen, a Moscow justice of the peace, Levin's bear-hunting comrade. The dinner was very merry. Sergei Ivanovich was in the best of spirits and enjoyed Katavasov's originality. Katavasov, feeling that his originality was appreciated and understood, flaunted it. Chirikov gaily and good-naturedly supported all the conversations.
'See, now,' Katavasov said, drawing out his words, from a habit acquired at the lectern, 'what an able fellow our friend Konstantin Dmitrich used to be. I'm speaking of him as an absent man because he is no more. He loved science then, on leaving the university, and had human interests; but now half of his abilities are aimed at deceiving himself and the other half at justifying this deceit.'
'A more resolute enemy of marriage than you I've never yet seen,' said Sergei Ivanovich.
'No, not an enemy. I'm a friend of the division of labour. People who can't do anything should make people, and the rest should contribute to their enlightenment and happiness. That's how I understand it. The mixing of these trades is done by hosts of fanciers, of whom I am not one.'[3]
'How happy I'll be when I find out you've fallen in love!' said Levin. 'Kindly invite me to your wedding.'
'I'm already in love.'
'Yes, with the cuttlefish. You know,' Levin turned to his brother, 'Mikhail Semyonych is writing a work on the feeding and ...'
'Well, don't go muddling things! It makes no difference what it's about. The point is that I really do love the cuttlefish.'
'But that won't prevent you loving a wife!'
'That won't prevent me, but the wife will.'
'Why so?'
'You'll find out. You, for instance, love farming and hunting - well, wait and see!'
'Arkhip came today and said there's no end of elk in Prudnoye, and two bears,' said Chirikov.
'Well, you'll have to bag them without me.'
'You see, it's true,' said Sergei Ivanovich. 'And from now on it's goodbye to bear hunting - your wife won't allow it!'
Levin smiled. The idea of his wife not allowing him pleased him so much that he was ready to renounce forever the pleasure of seeing bears.
'Still, it's a pity those two bears will get bagged without you. Do you remember the last time in Khapilovo? We'd have great hunting,' said Chirikov.
Levin did not want to deprive him of the illusion that there could be anything good anywhere without her, and so he said nothing.
'This custom of bidding farewell to bachelor life was not established in vain,' said Sergei Ivanovich. 'However happy one may be, one still regrets one's freedom.'
'Confess, you do have that feeling of wanting to jump out of the window like the suitor in Gogol?'[4]
'Certainly he does, but he won't confess it!' Katavasov said and laughed loudly.
'Well, the window's open ... Let's set off for Tver right now! One is a she-bear, so we can get to the den. Really, let's take the five o'clock train! And they can do as they like here,' said Chirikov, smiling.
'I'll tell you, by God,' Levin said, smiling, 'in my heart I can't find any feeling of regret for my freedom!'
'Ah, there's such chaos in your heart now that you couldn't find anything there,' Katavasov said. 'Wait till you sort things out, then you'll find it!'
'No, otherwise I'd have at least some slight sense that, besides my feeling' (he did not want to say 'of love' in front of him) '... and happiness, I was still sorry to lose my freedom ... On the contrary, I'm glad precisely of this loss of freedom.'
'Bad! A hopeless specimen!' said Katavasov. 'Well, let's drink to his recovery, or else wish him that only a hundredth part of his dreams comes true. And that would already be such happiness as has never been on earth!'
The guests left soon after dinner so as to have time to change for the wedding.
Remaining alone and recalling the conversation of these bachelors, Levin once again asked himself: did he really feel in his heart this regret for his freedom that they had spoken of? He smiled at the question. 'Freedom? Why freedom? Happiness is only in loving and desiring, thinking her desires, her thoughts - that is, no freedom at all - that's what happiness is!'
'But do I know her thoughts, her desires, her feelings?' some voice suddenly whispered to him. The smile vanished from his face and he fell to thinking. And suddenly a strange sensation came over him. He was possessed by fear and doubt, doubt of everything.
'What if she doesn't love me? What if she's marrying me only so as to get married? What if she herself doesn't know what she's doing?' he asked himself. 'She may come to her senses and understand only after marrying that she does not and cannot love me.' And strange thoughts about her, of the very worst sort, began coming into his head. He was jealous of Vronsky, as he had been a year ago, as if that evening when he had seen her with Vronsky were yesterday. He suspected that she had not told him everything.
He quickly jumped up. 'No, it's impossible like this!' he said to himself in despair. 'I'll go to her, ask her, tell her for the last time: we're free, hadn't we better stop? Anything's better than eternal unhappiness, disgrace, infidelity!!' With despair in his heart and with anger at all people, at himself, at her, he left the hotel and drove to see her.
He found her in the back rooms. She was sitting on a trunk, making arrangements about something with a maid, with whom she was sorting out piles of many-coloured dresses laid over the backs of chairs and on the floor.
'Oh!' she cried when she saw him and lit up with joy. 'Why? What is it? How unexpected! And I'm here sorting out my girlhood dresses, which goes to whom ...'
'Ah! that's very nice!' he said, looking gloomily at the maid.
'Run along, Dunyasha, I'll call you later,' said Kitty. 'What's the matter with you?' she asked, resolutely addressing him informally, as soon as the maid had left. She noticed his strange face, agitated and gloomy, and fear came over her.
'Kitty, I'm suffering! I can't suffer alone,' he said with despair in his voice, standing before her and looking at her imploringly. He already saw by her loving, truthful face that nothing could come of what he intended to say, but all the same he needed her reassurance. 'I've come to say that we still have time. It can all be cancelled and corrected.'
'What? I don't understand anything. What's the matter with you?'
'What I've told you a thousand times and can't help thinking ... that I'm not worthy of you. You couldn't have agreed to marry me. Think. You've made a mistake. Think well. You can't love me ... If .. . it's better to say it.' He talked without looking at her. 'I'll be unhappy. They can all say whatever they like - anything's better than unhappiness .. . Anything's better now, while there's time ...'
'I don't understand,' she replied fearfully. 'You mean that you want to take back ... that we shouldn't?'
'Yes, if you don't love me.'
'You're out of your mind!' she cried, flushing with vexation.
But his face was so pathetic that she held back her vexation and, throwing the dresses off a chair, sat closer to him.
'What are you thinking? Tell me everything.'
'I think that you cannot love me. What could you love me for?'
'My God! what can I. .. ?' she said, and burst into tears.
'Ah, what have I done!' he cried and, kneeling before her, he began kissing her hands.
