Leo Tolstoy

by Anna Karenina (tr Richard Pevear, Larissa Volokhonsky) (Penguin Classics) (epub)

  ‘The bill!’ he shouted and went to a neighbouring room, where he at once met an aide–de–camp of his acquaintance and got into conversation with him about some actress and the man who kept her. And at once, in his conversation with the aide–de–camp, Oblonsky felt relieved and rested after talking with Levin, who always caused him too much mental and spiritual strain.

  When the Tartar came with a bill for twenty–six roubles and change, plus something for a tip, Levin, who at another time, as a countryman, would have been horrified at his share of fourteen roubles, now took notice, paid and went home, in order to change and go to the Shcherbatskys’, where his fate was to be decided.

  XII

  Princess Kitty Shcherbatsky was eighteen years old. She had come out for the first time this season. Her success in society was greater than that of her two older sisters and greater than the old princess had even expected. Not only were all the young men who danced at the Moscow balls in love with Kitty, but already in this first season two serious suitors had presented themselves: Levin and, immediately after his departure, Count Vronsky.

  Levin’s appearance at the beginning of winter, his frequent visits and obvious love for Kitty, gave rise to the first serious conversations between Kitty’s parents about her future and to disputes between the prince and the princess. The prince was on Levin’s side, said he could wish nothing better for Kitty. The princess, however, with that way women have of sidestepping the question, said that Kitty was too young, that Levin had in no way shown that his intentions were serious, that Kitty had no attachment to him, and other arguments; but what she did not say was that she expected a better match for her daughter, that she found Levin unsympathetic, and that she did not understand him. When Levin suddenly left, the princess was glad and said triumphantly to her husband: ‘You see, I was right.’ And when Vronsky appeared, she was gladder still, being confirmed in her opinion that Kitty was to make not merely a good but a brilliant match.

  For the mother there could be no comparison between Vronsky and Levin. The mother disliked in Levin his strange and sharp judgements, his awkwardness in society (caused, as she supposed, by his pride), and his, in her opinion, wild sort of life in the country, busy with cattle and muzhiks; she also very much disliked that he, being in love with her daughter, had visited their house for a month and a half as if waiting for something spying out, as if he were afraid it would be too great an honour if he should propose, and not understanding that if he visited a house where here was a marriageable daughter, he ought to explain himself. And suddenly, without explanation, he had left. ‘It’s a good thing he’s so unattractive that Kitty didn’t fall in love with him,’ thought the mother.

  Vronsky satisfied all the mother’s desires. Very rich, intelligent, wellborn, a brilliant military–courtly career, and a charming man. One could wish for nothing better.

  At the balls Vronsky openly courted Kitty, danced with her and visited the house, which meant there could be no doubt of the seriousness of his intentions. But, in spite of that, the mother spent the entire winter in terrible worry and agitation.

  The old princess herself had married thirty years ago, with her aunt as matchmaker. The fiancé, of whom everything was known beforehand, came, saw the bride, and was seen himself; the matchmaking aunt found out and conveyed the impression made on both sides; the impression was good; then on the appointed day the expected proposal was made to her parents and accepted. Everything happened very easily and simply. At least it seemed so to the princess. But with her own daughters she had experienced how this seemingly ordinary thing – giving away her daughters in marriage – was neither easy nor simple. So many fears had been lived through, so many thoughts thought, so much money spent, so many confrontations with her husband when the older two, Darya and Natalya, were being married! Now, as the youngest one was brought out, she lived through the same fears, the same doubts, and had still greater quarrels with her husband than over the older ones. The old prince, like all fathers, was especially scrupulous about the honour and purity of his daughters; he was unreasonably jealous over them, and especially over Kitty, who was his favourite, and at every step made scenes with his wife for compromising their daughter. The princess had already grown used to it with the first two daughters, but now she felt that the prince’s scrupulousness had more grounds. She saw that much had changed lately in the ways of society, that the duties of a mother had become even more difficult. She saw that girls of Kitty’s age formed some sort of groups, attended some sort of courses[26] freely associated with men, drove around by themselves, many no longer curtsied, and, worse still, they were all firmly convinced that choosing a husband was their own and not their parents’ business. ‘Nowadays girls are not given in marriage as they used to be,’ all these young girls, and even all the old people, thought and said. But how a girl was to be given in marriage nowadays the princess could not find out from anyone. The French custom – for the parents to decide the children’s fate – was not accepted, and was even condemned. The English custom – giving the girl complete freedom – was also not accepted and was impossible in Russian society.

  The Russian custom of matchmaking was regarded as something outrageous and was laughed at by everyone, the princess included. But how a girl was to get married or be given in marriage, no one knew. Everyone with whom the princess happened to discuss it told her one and the same thing: ‘Good gracious, in our day it’s time to abandon this antiquity. It’s young people who get married, not their parents; that means the young people should be left to arrange it as they can.’ It was fine for those who had no daughters to talk that way; but the princess understood that in making friends her daughter might fall in love, and fall in love with someone who would not want to marry or who was not right as a husband. And however much the princess was assured that in our time young people themselves must settle their fate, she was unable to believe it, as she would have been unable to believe that in anyone’s time the best toys for five–year–old children would be loaded pistols. And therefore the princess worried more about Kitty than she had about her older daughters.

  Now her fear was that Vronsky would not limit himself to merely courting her daughter. She saw that Kitty was already in love with him, but she comforted herself with thinking that he was an honest man and therefore would not do such a thing. But along with that she knew how easy it was, with the present–day freedom of behaviour, to turn a girl’s head and, generally, how lightly men looked upon this fault. The week before, Kitty had repeated to her mother her conversation with Vronsky during the mazurka. This conversation had partly set the princess at ease; but she could not be completely at ease. Vronsky had told Kitty that he and his brother were both so used to obeying their mother in all things that they would never dare undertake anything important without consulting her. ‘And now I’m waiting, as for a special happiness, for my mother’s arrival from Petersburg,’ he had said.

  Kitty had repeated it without giving any significance to these words. But her mother understood it differently. She knew that the old woman was expected any day, knew that she would be glad of her son’s choice, and found it strange that he would not propose for fear of offending his mother; yet she so much wanted the marriage itself and, most of all, a rest from her anxieties, that she believed it. Painful as it was for the Princess to see the unhappiness of her eldest daughter, Dolly, who was Preparing to leave her husband, her worry over the deciding of her youngest daughter’s fate consumed all her feelings. Levin’s appearance that same day had added to her trouble. She was afraid that her daughter, who as it seemed to her, had some feeling for Levin, might refuse Vronsky out of unnecessary honesty, and generally that Levin’s arrival might confuse and delay matters so near conclusion.

  ‘What about him, did he arrive long ago?’ the princess said of Levin as they returned home.

  ‘Today, maman.’

  ‘I only want to say…’ the princess began, and by her seriously animated face Kitty could
guess what the talk would be about.

  ‘Mama,’ she said, flushing and quickly turning to her, ‘please, please, don’t say anything about it. I know, I know it all.’

  She wished for the same thing her mother did, but the motives for her mother’s wish offended her.

  ‘I only want to say that, having given hopes to one …’

  ‘Mama, darling, for God’s sake, don’t speak. It’s so awful to speak of it.’

  ‘I won’t, I won’t,’ her mother said, seeing the tears in her daughter’s eyes, ‘but one thing, my dearest: you promised me you wouldn’t have any secrets from me. You won’t?’

  ‘Never, mama, none,’ Kitty answered, blushing and looking straight into her mother’s face. ‘But I have nothing to tell now. I.. . I… even if I wanted to, I don’t know what to say or how … I don’t know …’

  ‘No, she can’t tell a lie with such eyes,’ her mother thought, smiling at her excitement and happiness. The princess was smiling at how immense and significant everything now happening in her soul must seem to the poor dear.

  XIII

  Between dinner and the beginning of the evening, Kitty experienced a feeling similar to that of a young man before battle. Her heart was beating hard, and she could not fix her thoughts on anything.

  She felt that this evening, when the two of them would meet for the first time, must be decisive in her fate. And she constantly pictured them to herself, first each of them separately, then the two together. When she thought about the past, she paused with pleasure, with tenderness, over memories of her relations with Levin. Memories of childhood and memories of Levin’s friendship with her dead brother lent her relations with him a special poetic charm. His love for her, which she was certain of was flattering and joyful for her. And it was easy for her to recall Levin. But in her recollections of Vronsky there was an admixture of something awkward, though he was in the highest degree a calm and worldly man. It was as if there were some falseness – not in him, he was very simple and nice – but in herself, while with Levin she felt completely simple and clear. But on the other hand, the moment she thought of a future with Vronsky, the most brilliantly happy prospects rose before her, while with Levin the future seemed cloudy.

  Going upstairs to dress for the evening and glancing in the mirror, she noticed with joy that she was having one of her good days and was in full possession of all her powers, which she so needed for what lay ahead of her: she felt in herself an external calm and a free grace of movement.

  At half–past seven, just as she came down to the drawing room, the footman announced: ‘Konstantin Dmitrich Levin.’ The princess was still in her room, and the prince also did not emerge. ‘That’s it,’ thought Kitty, and the blood rushed to her heart. Glancing in the mirror, she was horrified at her paleness.

  Now she knew for certain that he had come earlier in order to find her alone and to propose. And only here did the whole matter present itself to her for the first time with quite a different, new side. Only here did she realize that the question concerned not just herself– with whom would she be happy and whom she loved – but that at this very minute she must hurt a man she loved. And hurt him cruelly . .. Why? Because he, the dear man, loved her, was in love with her. But, no help for it, it must be so, it had to be so.

  ‘My God, can it be that I must tell him myself?’ she thought. ‘Well, what shall I tell him? Can I possibly tell him I don’t love him? It wouldn’t be true. What shall I tell him, then? That I love another man? No, that’s impossible. I’ll go away, just go away.’

  She was already close to the door when she heard his steps. ‘No, it’s dishonest! What am I afraid of? I haven’t done anything wrong. What will be, will be! I’ll tell the truth. I can’t feel awkward with him. Here he is,’ she said to herself, seeing his whole strong and timid figure, with his shining eyes directed at her. She looked straight into his face, as if begging him for mercy, and gave him her hand.

  I’ve come at the wrong time, it seems – too early,’ he said, glancing around the empty drawing room. When he saw that his expectations had been fulfilled, that nothing prevented him from speaking out, his face darkened.

  ‘Oh, no,’ said Kitty, and she sat down at the table.

  ‘But this is just what I wanted, to find you alone,’ he began, not sitting down and not looking at her, so as not to lose courage.

  ‘Mama will come out presently. Yesterday she got very tired. Yesterday…’

  She spoke, not knowing what her lips were saying, and not taking her pleading and caressing eyes off him.

  He glanced at her; she blushed and fell silent.

  ‘I told you I didn’t know whether I had come for long … that it depended on you …’

  She hung her head lower and lower, not knowing how she would reply to what was coming.

  ‘That it depended on you,’ he repeated. ‘I wanted to say … I wanted to say … I came for this … that … to be my wife!’ he said, hardly aware of what he was saying; but, feeling that the most dreadful part had been said, he stopped and looked at her.

  She was breathing heavily, not looking at him. She was in ecstasy. Her soul overflowed with happiness. She had never imagined that the voicing of his love would make such a strong impression on her. But this lasted only a moment. She remembered Vronsky. Raising her light, truthful eyes to Levin and seeing his desperate face, she hastily replied:

  ‘It cannot be … forgive me …’

  How close she had been to him just a minute ago, how important for his life! And now how alien and distant from him she had become!

  ‘It couldn’t have been otherwise,’ he said, not looking at her.

  He bowed and was about to leave.

  XIV

  But just then the princess came out. Horror showed on her face when she saw them alone and looking upset. Levin bowed to her and said nothing. Kitty was silent, not raising her eyes. ‘Thank God, she’s refused him,’ thought the mother, and her face brightened with the usual smile with which she met her guests on Thursdays. She sat down and began asking Levin about his life in the country. He sat down again, awaiting the arrival of other guests so that he could leave inconspicuously.

  Five minutes later Kitty’s friend, Countess Nordston, who had been married the previous winter, came in.

  She was a dry, yellow woman, sickly and nervous, with black shining eyes. She loved Kitty, and her love expressed itself, as a married woman’s love for young girls always does, in her wish to get Kitty married according to her own ideal of happiness, and therefore she wished her to marry Vronsky. Levin, whom she had met often in their house at the beginning of winter, she had always found disagreeable. Her constant and favourite occupation when she met him consisted in making fun of him.

  ‘I love it when he looks down at me from the height of his grandeur: either he breaks off his clever conversation with me because I’m stupid, or he condescends to me. Condescends! I just love it! I’m very glad he can’t stand me,’ she said of him.

  She was right, because Levin indeed could not stand her and had contempt for what she took pride in and counted as a merit – her nervousness, her refined contempt and disregard for all that was coarse and common.

  Between Countess Nordston and Levin there had been established those relations, not infrequent in society, in which two persons, while ostensibly remaining on friendly terms, are contemptuous of each other to such a degree that they cannot even treat each other seriously and cannot even insult one another.

  Countess Nordston fell upon Levin at once.

  ‘Ah! Konstantin Dmitrich! You’ve come back to our depraved Babylon,’ she said, giving him her tiny yellow hand and recalling the words he had spoken once at the beginning of winter, that Moscow was Babylon. ‘Has Babylon become better, or have you become worse?’ she added, glancing at Kitty with a mocking smile.

  I’m very flattered, Countess, that you remember my words so well,’ answered Levin, who had managed to recover and by force of habit ent
ered at once into his banteringly hostile attitude towards Countess Nordston. ‘They must have had a very strong effect on you.’