Leo Tolstoy

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

  Shcherbatsky told the old lady–in–waiting, Mme Nikolaev, that he intended to put the crown on Kitty’s chignon so that she would be happy.[14]

  ‘She oughtn’t to be wearing a chignon,’ answered Mme Nikolaev, who had decided long ago that if the old widower she was trying to catch married her, the wedding would be the simplest. ‘I don’t like all this faste.’*

  Sergei Ivanovich was talking with Darya Dmitrievna, jokingly assuring her that the custom of going away after the wedding was spreading because newlyweds are always a little ashamed.

  ‘Your brother can be proud. She’s wonderfully sweet. I suppose you’re envious?’

  ‘I’ve already been through that, Darya Dmitrievna,’ he replied, and his face unexpectedly assumed a sad and serious expression.

  Stepan Arkadyich was telling his sister–in–law his quip about separations.

  ‘The coronet wants straightening,’ she said, not listening to him.

  ‘It’s too bad she looks so poorly,’ Countess Nordston said to Natalie. ‘And all the same he’s not worth her little finger. Isn’t it so?’

  ‘No, I like him very much. Not just because he’s my future beau–frère,’

  * Display.

  Natalie replied. ‘And how well he carries himself! It’s so difficult: to carry oneself well in such a situation – not to be ridiculous. And he’s not ridiculous, not tense, you can see he’s moved.’

  ‘It seems you were expecting this?’

  ‘Almost. She’s always loved him.’

  ‘Well, let’s see who steps on the rug first. I advised Kitty.’

  ‘It makes no difference,’ Natalie replied, ‘we’re all obedient wives, it runs in the family.’

  ‘And I purposely stepped on it first, before Vassily. And you, Dolly?’

  Dolly was standing next to them, heard them, but did not answer. She was moved. There were tears in her eyes, and she would have been unable to answer without weeping. She rejoiced over Kitty and Levin; going back in thought to her own wedding, she glanced at the beaming Stepan Arkadyich, forgetting all the present and recalling only her first innocent love. She remembered not only herself, but all women, her close friends and acquaintances; she remembered them at that uniquely solemn time for them, when they, just like Kitty, stood under the crown with love, hope and fear in their hearts, renouncing the past and entering into the mysterious future. Among all these brides who came to her mind, she also remembered her dear Anna, the details of whose presumed divorce she had heard recently. She, too, had stood pure in her orange blossom and veil. And now what? ‘Terribly strange,’ she murmured.

  Not only did sisters, friends and relations follow all the details of the sacred ritual; women spectators, complete strangers, watched with breathless excitement, afraid to miss a single movement or facial expression of the bride and bridegroom, and irritably ignored or often did not hear the talk of the indifferent men, who made jocular and irrelevant observations.

  ‘Why is she all in tears? Or is she marrying against her will?’

  ‘Why against her will if he’s such a fine fellow? A prince, isn’t he?’

  ‘Is that her sister in white satin? Well, listen to how the deacon’s going to roar: "And the wife see that she reverence her husband." ‘[15]

  ‘The Chudovsky choir?’

  ‘The Synodal.’

  ‘I asked the footman. He says he’s taking her to his estate at once. He’s awfully rich, they say. That’s why they’ve married her to him.’

  ‘No, they’re a fine couple.’

  ‘And you, Marya Vlasyevna, you argued that crinolines are now worn loose. Look at that one in puce – an ambassador’s wife, they say – how hers is tucked up … Like this, and again like this.’

  ‘What a sweetie the bride is, done up like a ewe–lamb! Say what you like, one feels pity for a sister.’

  Such was the talk in the crowd of women spectators who had managed to slip through the doors of the church.

  VI

  When the rite of betrothal was finished, a verger spread a piece of pink silk in front of the lectern in the middle of the church, the choir began singing an artful and elaborate psalm[16] in which bass and tenor echoed each other, and the priest, turning, motioned the betrothed to the spread–out piece of pink cloth. Often and much as they had both heard about the belief that whoever is first to step on the rug will be the head in the family, neither Levin nor Kitty could recall it as they made those few steps. Nor did they hear the loud remarks and disputes that, in the observation of some, he had been the first, or, in the opinion of others, they had stepped on it together.

  After the usual questions about their desire to enter into matrimony and whether they were promised to others, and their replies, which sounded strange to their own ears, a new service began. Kitty was listening to the words of the prayer, wishing to understand their meaning, but she could not. A feeling of triumph and bright joy overflowed her soul more and more as the rite continued and made it impossible for her to be attentive.

  They prayed ‘that there be granted unto them chastity and the fruit of the womb as is expedient for them, and be made glad with the sight of sons and daughters’. It was mentioned that God had created woman out of Adam’s rib, ‘for which cause a man will leave his father and mother and cleave unto his wife, and the two shall be one flesh’, and that ‘this is a great mystery’; it was asked that God grant them fruitfulness and blessing as He did to Isaac and Rebecca, Joseph, Moses and Sepphora, and that they see their children’s children.[17] ‘All this is very beautiful,’ Kitty thought, listening to these words, ‘all this cannot be otherwise,’ and a smile of joy, which involuntarily communicated itself to everyone who looked at her, shone on her radiant face.

  ‘Put it all the way on!’ came the advice, when the priest put the crowns on them, and Shcherbatsky, his hand trembling in its three–buttoned glove, held the crown high over her head.

  ‘Put it on!’ she whispered, smiling.

  Levin looked at her and was struck by the joyful glow of her face; and the feeling involuntarily communicated itself to him. He felt just as bright and happy as she did.

  They were happy listening to the reading of the epistle and to the roll of the protodeacon’s voice at the last verse, awaited with such impatience by the public outside. They were happy drinking the warm red wine mixed with water from the flat cup, and happier still when the priest, flinging back his chasuble and taking both their hands in his, led them around the lectern to the outbursts of the bass singing ‘Rejoice, O Isaiah’.[18] Shcherbatsky and Chirikov, who followed them holding the crowns over their heads, getting tangled in the bride’s train, also smiling and rejoicing at something, first lagged behind, then bumped into them each time the priest stopped. The spark of joy that had flared up in Kitty seemed to have communicated itself to everyone in the church. To Levin it seemed that both the priest and the deacon wanted to smile just as he did.

  Having taken the crowns from their heads, the priest read the final prayer and congratulated the young couple. Levin looked at Kitty, and never before had he seen her like that. She was lovely with that new glow of happiness in her face. Levin wanted to say something to her, but he did not know if it was over yet. The priest resolved his difficulty. He smiled with his kindly mouth and said softly:

  ‘Kiss your wife, and you kiss your husband,’ and he took the candles from their hands.

  Levin carefully kissed her smiling lips, offered her his arm and, feeling a new, strange closeness, started out of the church. He did not believe, he could not believe, that it was true. Only when their surprised and timid eyes met did he believe it, because he felt that they were already one.

  After supper that same night the young couple left for the country.

  VII

  For three months Vronsky and Anna had been travelling together in Europe. They had visited Venice, Rome, Naples and had just arrived in a small Italian town where they wanted to stay for a while.

  The
handsome maître d’hôtel, his thick, pomaded hair parted from the nape up, wearing a tailcoat and a wide white cambric shirtfront, a bunch of charms on his round pot–belly, his hands thrust into his pockets, his eyes narrowed contemptuously, was sternly saying something in reply to a gentleman who stood before him. Hearing footsteps coming up the stairs from the other side of the entrance, the maître d’hôtel turned and, seeing the Russian count who occupied their best rooms, respectfully pulled his hands from his pockets and, inclining, explained that a messenger had come and that the matter of renting the palazzo had been settled. The manager was ready to sign the agreement.

  ‘Ah! I’m very glad,’ said Vronsky. ‘And is the lady at home or not?’

  ‘Madame went out for a walk but has now come back,’ said the maître d’hôtel.

  Vronsky removed his soft, wide–brimmed hat, took out a handkerchief and wiped his sweaty forehead and his hair, grown half–way over his ears and combed back to cover his bald spot. Glancing distractedly at the gentleman, who was still standing there studying him, he was about to go in.

  ‘This gentleman is a Russian and has asked about you,’ said the maître d’hôtel.

  With a mixed feeling of vexation at being unable to get away from acquaintances and of desire to find at least some distraction from the monotony of his life, Vronsky glanced once again at the gentleman, who had moved aside and then stopped. The two men’s eyes lit up simultaneously.

  ‘Golenishchev!’

  ‘Vronsky!’

  It was indeed Golenishchev, Vronsky’s comrade in the Corps of Pages. In the corps Golenishchev had belonged to the liberal party; he had left the corps with civil rank and had not served anywhere. The comrades had totally drifted apart after leaving the corps and had met only once since.

  At that meeting Vronsky had understood that Golenishchev had chosen some high–minded liberal activity and as a result wanted to despise Vronsky’s activity and rank. Therefore, on meeting Golenishchev, Vronsky had given him that cold and proud rebuff he knew how to give people, which meant: ‘You may or may not like my way of life, it makes absolutely no difference to me: you must respect me if you want to know me.’ Golenishchev, however, had been contemptuously indifferent to Vronsky’s tone. That meeting ought, it would seem, to have estranged them still further. Now, however, they brightened up and exclaimed joyfully on recognizing each other. Vronsky had never expected that he could be so glad to see Golenishchev, but he probably did not know himself how bored he was. He forgot the unpleasant impression of their last meeting and with an open, joyful face offered his hand to his former comrade. The same expression of joy now replaced the earlier uneasy look on Golenishchev’s face.

  ‘I’m so glad to see you!’ said Vronsky, baring his strong white teeth in a friendly smile.

  ‘And I heard "Vronsky", but which Vronsky I didn’t know. I’m very, very glad!’

  ‘Let’s go in. Well, what are you up to?’

  ‘It’s the second year I’ve been here. Working.’

  ‘Ah!’ Vronsky said with sympathy. ‘But let’s go in.’

  And by a common Russian habit, so as not to say in Russian what he wanted to conceal from the servants, he began to speak in French.

  ‘Do you know Mme Karenina? We’re travelling together. I’m on my way to see her,’ he said in French, peering intently into Golenishchev’s face.

  ‘Ah! I didn’t know,’ Golenishchev replied indifferently (though he did know). ‘Have you been here long?’ he added.

  ‘I? Three days,’ Vronsky replied, once again peering attentively into his comrade’s face.

  ‘Yes, he’s a decent man and looks at the matter in the right way,’ Vronsky said to himself, understanding the meaning of Golenishchev’s look and the change of subject. ‘I can have him meet Anna, he looks at it in the right way.’

  In those three months he had spent with Anna abroad, Vronsky, on meeting new people, had always asked himself how this new person looked at his relations with Anna, and had found that the men, for the most part, understood it ‘in the right way’. But if he or those men who understood it ‘in the right way’ had been asked what that understanding was, both he and they would have been in great difficulty.

  In fact, those who understood it, to Vronsky’s mind, ‘in the right way’, did not understand it in any way, but behaved generally as well–bred people do with regard to all the complicated and insoluble questions that surround life on all sides – decently, avoiding hints and unpleasant questions. They pretended to understand fully the significance and meaning of the situation, to acknowledge and even approve of it, but considered it inappropriate and unnecessary to explain it all.

  Vronsky realized at once that Golenishchev was one of those people, and was therefore doubly glad to see him. Indeed, Golenishchev behaved himself with Anna, when brought to her, just as Vronsky would have wished. He avoided, obviously without the least effort, any conversation that might have led to awkwardness.

  He had not known Anna before and was struck by her beauty and still more by the simplicity with which she accepted her situation. She blushed when Vronsky brought him in, and this childlike colour that came over her open and beautiful face he liked very much. But he especially liked that she at once, as if on purpose, called Vronsky simply Alexei, so that there could be no misunderstandings in the presence of a stranger, and said that they were moving together to a newly rented house, known locally as a palazzo. Golenishchev liked this direct and simple attitude to her position. Observing Anna’s good–naturedly cheerful, energetic manner, and knowing both Alexei Alexandrovich and Vronsky, Golenishchev felt that he fully understood her. It seemed to him that he understood what she was quite unable to – namely, how it was that she, having caused the unhappiness of her husband, having abandoned him and their son, and having lost her own good name, could still feel energetically cheerful and happy.

  ‘It’s in the guidebook,’ Golenishchev said of the palazzo Vronsky had rented. ‘There’s a splendid Tintoretto[19] there. From his last period.’

  ‘You know what? The weather’s splendid, let’s go there and have another look,’ said Vronsky, turning to Anna.

  ‘I’d be very glad to. I’ll go and put my hat on. You say it’s hot?’ she said, stopping at the door and looking questioningly at Vronsky, and again the bright colour came over her face.

  Vronsky saw from her look that she did not know what relations he wanted to have with Golenishchev, and that she was afraid she might not be behaving as he would have wanted her to.

  He gave her a long, tender look.

  ‘No, not very,’ he said.

  And it seemed to her that she understood everything, above all that he was pleased with her; and, smiling at him, she went out with her quick step.

  The friends looked at each other and there was perplexity in both their faces, as if Golenishchev, who obviously admired her, would have liked to say something about her but could not think what, while Vronsky wished and feared the same thing.

  ‘So that’s how it is,’ Vronsky began, in order to begin some sort of conversation. ‘So you’ve settled here? So you’re still doing the same thing?’ he went on, recalling that he had been told Golenishchev was writing something …

  ‘Yes, I’m writing the second part of The Two Origins,’ said Golenishchev, flushing with pleasure at the question. ‘That is, to be precise, I’m not writing yet, but I’m preparing, collecting material. It will be much more extensive and cover almost all the questions. We in Russia don’t want to understand that we are heirs of Byzantium.’ He began a long, ardent explanation.[20]

  At first Vronsky felt awkward, not knowing the first part of The Two Origins, which the author spoke of as something well known. But then, as Golenishchev began to explain his thoughts and Vronsky was able to follow him, though he did not know The Two Origins, he listened not without interest, for Golenishchev spoke well. But Vronsky was surprised and disturbed by the irritated excitement with which Golenishchev spok
e of the subject that occupied him. The longer he spoke, the more his eyes burned, the more he hastened to object to imaginary opponents, and the more anxious and offended the expression of his face became. Remembering Golenishchev as a thin, lively, good–natured and noble boy, always the first student in the corps, Vronsky simply could not understand the causes of this irritation and disapproved of it. He especially disliked the fact that Golenishchev, a man from a good circle, put himself on the same level with some common scribblers who irritated him, and was angry with them. Was it worth it? That Vronsky did not like, but, in spite of it, he felt that Golenishchev was unhappy and he was sorry for him. Unhappiness, insanity almost, showed on this lively and quite handsome face as he went on hurriedly and ardently voicing his thoughts, not even noticing that Anna had come out.