Anna Karenina
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 anyone. 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 of intermediate persons was for some reason considered
unseemly; it was ridiculed by everyone, 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 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 he 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
heart 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 well-bred 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 though 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,” he 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