by Anna Karenina (tr Richard Pevear, Larissa Volokhonsky) (Penguin Classics) (epub)
‘I don’t have any skates,’ Levin replied, surprised at this boldness and casualness in her presence and not losing sight of her for a moment, though he was not looking at her. He felt the sun approach him. She was turning a corner, her slender feet at a blunt angle in their high boots, and with evident timidity was skating towards him. Desperately swinging his arms and crouching low, a boy in Russian dress was overtaking her. She skated not quite steadily; taking her hands out of a small muff hanging from a cord, she held them ready and, looking at Levin, whom she had recognized, smiled at him and at her own fear. When she finished the turn, she pushed herself off with a springy little foot and glided right up to Shcherbatsky. Holding on to him and smiling, she nodded to Levin. She was more beautiful than he had imagined her.
When he thought of her, he could vividly picture all of her to himself, especially the loveliness of that small fair head, with its expression of a child’s brightness and kindness, set so easily on her shapely girlish shoulders. In this childlike expression of her face combined with the slender beauty of her figure lay her special loveliness, which he remembered well; but what was always striking in her, like something unexpected, was the look in her eyes – meek, calm and truthful – and especially her smile, which always transported Levin into a magic world where he felt softened and moved to tenderness, as he could remember himself being on rare days in his early childhood.
‘Have you been here long?’ she said, giving him her hand. ‘Thank you,’ she added, as he picked up the handkerchief that had fallen out of her muff.
‘I? Not long, I came yesterday … today, I mean,’ replied Levin, not quite understanding her question in his excitement. ‘I was going to call on you,’ he said and, remembering at once with what intention he was looking for her, he became embarrassed and blushed. ‘I didn’t know you skated, and skated so well.’
She looked at him attentively, as if wishing to understand the reason for his embarrassment.
‘Your praise is to be valued. There’s a tradition here of you being an excellent skater,’ she said, flicking off with her small, black–gloved hand the needles of hoar–frost that had fallen on her muff.
Yes, I used to be a passionate skater; I wanted to achieve perfection.’
‘It seems you do everything passionately,’ she said, smiling. ‘I do so want to see you skate. Put on some skates and let’s skate together.’
‘Skate together! Can it be possible?’ thought Levin, looking at her.
‘I’ll put them on at once,’ he said.
And he went to put on some skates.
‘You haven’t been here for a long time, sir,’ said the skating attendant as he supported his foot, tightening the screw on the heel. ‘There have been no experts among the gentlemen since you left. Will that be all right?’ he asked, tightening the strap.
‘All right, all right, hurry up, please,’ Levin replied, barely repressing the smile of happiness that involuntarily appeared on his face. ‘Yes,’ he thought, ‘this is life, this is happiness! "Together", she said, "let’s skate together". Shall I tell her now? But that’s why I’m afraid to tell her, because I’m happy now, happy at least in hopes … And then?… But I must! I must! Away, weakness!’
Levin stood up, took his coat off and, taking a run on the rough ice near the shed, raced out on to the smooth ice and glided effortlessly, speeding up, slowing down, and directing his course as if by will alone. He approached her timidly, but again her smile set him at ease.
She gave him her hand, and they set off together, increasing their speed, and the faster they went, the tighter she held on to his arm.
‘With you I’d learn quicker; for some reason I have confidence in you,’ she said to him.
‘And I have confidence in myself when you lean on my arm,’ he said, but at once felt afraid of what he had said and blushed. Indeed, as soon as he uttered those words, her face lost all its gentleness, as if the sun had suddenly gone behind a cloud, and Levin recognized the familiar play of her face that indicated the effort of thought: a little wrinkle swelled on her smooth forehead.
‘Has anything unpleasant happened to you? Though I have no right to ask,’ he said quickly.
‘Why?… No, nothing unpleasant has happened,’ she answered coldly and added at once: ‘Have you seen Mlle Linon?’
‘Not yet.’
‘Go over to her, she likes you so much.’
‘What’s this? I’ve upset her. Lord help me!’ thought Levin, and he raced over to the old Frenchwoman with grey curls, who was sitting on a bench. Smiling and showing her false teeth, she greeted him like an old friend.
‘So, we’re getting bigger,’ she said to him, glancing in Kitty’s direction, ‘and older. Tiny bear has grown up!’ the Frenchwoman went on, laughing, and she reminded him of his joke about the three girls, whom he used to call the three bears from the English tale. ‘Remember how you used to say it?’ He decidedly did not remember, but for ten years she had been laughing over this joke and enjoying it. ‘Well, go, go and skate. Our Kitty’s become a good skater, hasn’t
she?’ When Levin again raced up to Kitty, her face was no longer stern, the
look in her eyes was as truthful and gentle as ever, but it seemed to Levin
that her gentleness had a special, deliberately calm tone. And he felt sad.
After talking about her old governess and her quirks, she asked him
about his life.
‘Is it really not boring for you in the country during the winter?’ she
said.
‘No, it’s not boring, I’m very busy,’ he said, sensing that she was subjecting him to her calm tone, which he would be unable to get out of, just as had happened at the beginning of winter.
‘Have you come for long?’ Kitty asked him.
‘I don’t know,’ he replied, not thinking of what he was saying. It occurred to him that if he yielded again to this tone of calm friendship, he would again leave without having decided anything, and he decided to rebel.
‘Why don’t you know?’
‘I don’t know. That depends on you,’ he said and at once was horrified at his words.
She did not hear his words, or did not wish to hear, but seemed to stumble, tapped her foot twice, and hurriedly skated away from him. She skated over to Mlle Linon, said something to her, and went to the shed where the ladies took off their skates.
‘My God, what have I done! Lord God! Help me, teach me,’ Levin said, praying, and at the same time, feeling a need for strong movement, he speeded up, cutting outer and inner circles.
Just then one of the young men, the best of the new skaters, with
skates on and a cigarette in his mouth, came out of the coffee room and,
taking a short run, went down the steps on his skates, clattering and
jumping. He flew down and, not even changing the free position of his
arms, glided away over the ice.
Ah, that’s a new stunt!’ said Levin, and immediately ran up to try it.
Don’t hurt yourself, it takes practice!’ Nikolai Shcherbatsky called out to him. Levin got up on the landing, took as much of a run as he could, and raced down, balancing himself with his arms in this unpractised movement. On the last step he caught on something, but, barely touching the ice with his hand, he made a strong movement, righted himself, and, laughing, skated on.
‘A nice man, a dear man,’ Kitty thought just then, coming out of the shed with Mlle Linon and looking at him with a smile of gentle tenderness, as at a beloved brother. ‘And can it be I’m to blame, can it be I did something bad? Coquettishness, they say. I know it’s not him I love; but even so, it’s fun to be with him, and he’s so nice. Only why did he say that? …’ she thought.
When he saw Kitty leaving and her mother meeting her on the steps, Levin, flushed after such quick movement, stopped and considered. He took off his skates and caught up with the mother and daughter at the exit from the garden.
‘Very glad
to see you,’ said the princess. ‘We receive on Thursdays, as usual.’
‘Today, then?’
‘We shall be very glad to see you,’ the princess said drily.
This dryness upset Kitty, and she could not hold back the wish to smooth over her mother’s coldness. She turned her head and said with a smile:
‘See you soon.’
At that moment Stepan Arkadyich, his hat cocked, his face and eyes shining, came into the garden with a merrily triumphant look. But, coming up to his mother–in–law, he answered her questions about Dolly’s health with a mournful, guilty face. Having spoken softly and glumly with her, he straightened up and took Levin’s arm.
‘Well, then, shall we go?’ he asked. ‘I kept thinking about you, and I’m very, very glad you’ve come,’ he said, looking into his eyes with a significant air.
‘Let’s go, let’s go,’ replied the happy Levin, still hearing the sound of the voice saying ‘See you soon’ and picturing the smile with which it had been said.
‘To the Anglia or the Hermitage?’
‘It makes no difference to me.’
‘To the Anglia, then,’ said Stepan Arkadyich, choosing the Anglia because he owed more in the Anglia than in the Hermitage. He therefore considered it not nice to avoid that hotel. ‘Do you have a cab? Excellent, because I dismissed my carriage.’ The friends were silent all the way. Levin thought about the meaning of that change in Kitty’s face, and first assured himself that there was hope, then fell into despair and saw clearly that his hope was mad, and yet he felt himself quite a different man, not like the one he had been before her smile and the words: ‘See you soon’.
Stepan Arkadyich devised the dinner menu on the way.
‘You do like turbot?’ he said to Levin, as they drove up.
‘What?’ asked Levin. ‘Turbot? Yes, I’m terribly fond of turbot.’
X
As Levin entered the hotel with Oblonsky, he could not help noticing a certain special expression, as if of restrained radiance, on the face and in the whole figure of Stepan Arkadyich. Oblonsky took off his coat and with his hat cocked passed into the restaurant, giving orders to the Tartar[16] in tailcoats who clung to him, napkins over their arms. Bowing right and left to the joyful greetings of acquaintances who turned up there, as everywhere, he went to the bar, followed his glass of vodka with a bit of fish, and said something to the painted Frenchwoman in ribbons, lace and ringlets who was sitting at the counter, so that even this Frenchwoman burst into genuine laughter. Levin did not drink vodka, if only because this Frenchwoman, who seemed to consist entirely of other people’s hair, poudre de riz and vinaigre de toilette,* was offensive to him. He hastened to step away from her as from a dirty spot. His whole soul was overflowing with the remembrance of Kitty, and in his eyes shone a smile of triumph and happiness.
‘This way, your highness, if you please, you will not be disturbed here, your highness,’ said a particularly clinging, blanched old Tartar with broad hips over which the tails of his coat parted. ‘Your hat please, your highness,’ he said to Levin, courting the guest as a token of respect for Stepan Arkadyich.
Instantly spreading a fresh tablecloth on a round table, already covered with a tablecloth, under a bronze lamp–bracket, he drew out the velvet chairs and stood before Stepan Arkadyich, napkin and menu in hand, awaiting orders.
Rice powder and cosmetic vinegar.
‘If you prefer, your highness, a private room will presently be vacated: Prince Golitsyn and a lady. Fresh oysters have come in.’
‘Ah, oysters!’
Stepan Arkadyich fell to thinking.
‘Shouldn’t we change our plan, Levin?’ he said, his finger pausing on the menu. And his face showed serious perplexity. ‘Are they good oysters? Mind yourself!’
‘Flensburg, your highness, we have no Ostend oysters.’
‘Flensburg, yes, but are they fresh?’
‘Came in yesterday, sir.’
‘In that case, shouldn’t we begin with oysters, and then change the whole plan? Eh?’
‘It makes no difference to me. I like shchi and kasha best[17] but they won’t have that here.’
‘Kasha à la Russe, if you please?’ the Tartar said, bending over Levin like a nanny over a child.
‘No, joking aside, whatever you choose will be fine. I did some skating and I’m hungry. And don’t think,’ he added, noticing the displeased expression on Oblonsky’s face, ‘that I won’t appreciate your choice. I’ll enjoy a good meal.’
‘To be sure! Say what you like, it is one of life’s enjoyments,’ said Stepan Arkadyich. ‘Well, then, my good man, bring us two – no, make it three dozen oysters, vegetable soup …’
‘Printanière,’ the Tartar picked up. But Stepan Arkadyich evidently did not want to give him the pleasure of naming the dishes in French.
‘Vegetable soup, you know? Then turbot with thick sauce, then … roast beef – but mind it’s good. And why not capon – well, and some stewed fruit.’
The Tartar, remembering Stepan Arkadyich’s manner of not naming dishes from the French menu, did not repeat after him, but gave himself the pleasure of repeating the entire order from the menu: ‘Soupe printanière, turbot sauce Beaumarchais, poularde à l’estragon, macédoine de fruits …’ and at once, as if on springs, laid aside one bound menu, picked up another, the wine list, and offered it to Stepan Arkadyich.
‘What shall we drink?’
‘I’ll have whatever you like, only not much, some champagne,’ said Levin.
‘What? To begin with? Though why not, in fact? Do you like the one with the white seal?’ ‘Cachet blanc,’ the Tartar picked up.
‘Well, so bring us that with the oysters, and then we’ll see.’
‘Right, sir. What table wine would you prefer?’
‘Bring us the Nuits. No, better still the classic Chablis.’
‘Right, sir. Would you prefer your cheese?’
‘Yes, the Parmesan. Unless you’d prefer something else?’
‘No, it makes no difference to me,’ said Levin, unable to repress a
smile.
And the Tartar, his tails flying over his broad hips, ran off and five minutes later rushed in again with a plate of opened oysters in their pearly shells and a bottle between his fingers.
Stepan Arkadyich crumpled the starched napkin, tucked it into his waistcoat, and, resting his arms comfortably, applied himself to the oysters.
‘Not bad,’ he said, peeling the sloshy oysters from their pearly shells with a little silver fork and swallowing them one after another. ‘Not bad,’ he repeated, raising his moist and shining eyes now to Levin, now to the Tartar.
Levin ate the oysters, though white bread and cheese would have been more to his liking. But he admired Oblonsky. Even the Tartar, drawing the cork and pouring the sparkling wine into shallow thin glasses, then straightening his white tie, kept glancing with a noticeable smile of pleasure at Stepan Arkadyich.
‘You don’t care much for oysters?’ said Stepan Arkadyich, drinking off his glass. ‘Or else you’re preoccupied? Eh?’
He wanted Levin to be cheerful. Yet it was not that Levin was not cheerful: he felt constrained. With what he had in his soul, it was eerie and awkward for him to be in a tavern, next to private rooms where one dined in the company of ladies, amidst this hustle and bustle. These surroundings of bronze, mirrors, gas–lights, Tartars – it was all offensive to him. He was afraid to soil what was overflowing in his soul.