Anna Karenina
“I don’t understand it at all,” said Levin, blushing, and feeling that
his words were stupid, and that they could not be anything but stupid
in such a position.
“Pray to God and beseech Him. Even the holy fathers had doubts, and
prayed to God to strengthen their faith. The devil has great power, and
we must resist him. Pray to God, beseech Him. Pray to God,” he repeated
hurriedly.
The priest paused for some time, as though meditating.
“You’re about, I hear, to marry the daughter of my parishioner and son
in the spirit, Prince Shtcherbatsky?” he resumed, with a smile. “An
excellent young lady.”
“Yes,” answered Levin, blushing for the priest. “What does he want to
ask me about this at confession for?” he thought.
And, as though answering his thought, the priest said to him:
“You are about to enter into holy matrimony, and God may bless you with
offspring. Well, what sort of bringing-up can you give your babes if
you do not overcome the temptation of the devil, enticing you to
infidelity?” he said, with gentle reproachfulness. “If you love your
child as a good father, you will not desire only wealth, luxury, honor
for your infant; you will be anxious for his salvation, his spiritual
enlightenment with the light of truth. Eh? What answer will you make
him when the innocent babe asks you: ‘Papa! who made all that enchants
me in this world—the earth, the waters, the sun, the flowers, the
grass?’ Can you say to him: ‘I don’t know’? You cannot but know, since
the Lord God in His infinite mercy has revealed it to us. Or your child
will ask you: ‘What awaits me in the life beyond the tomb?’ What will
you say to him when you know nothing? How will you answer him? Will you
leave him to the allurements of the world and the devil? That’s not
right,” he said, and he stopped, putting his head on one side and
looking at Levin with his kindly, gentle eyes.
Levin made no answer this time, not because he did not want to enter
upon a discussion with the priest, but because, so far, no one had ever
asked him such questions, and when his babes did ask him those
questions, it would be time enough to think about answering them.
“You are entering upon a time of life,” pursued the priest, “when you
must choose your path and keep to it. Pray to God that He may in His
mercy aid you and have mercy on you!” he concluded. “Our Lord and God,
Jesus Christ, in the abundance and riches of His loving-kindness,
forgives this child....” and, finishing the prayer of absolution, the
priest blessed him and dismissed him.
On getting home that day, Levin had a delightful sense of relief at the
awkward position being over and having been got through without his
having to tell a lie. Apart from this, there remained a vague memory
that what the kind, nice old fellow had said had not been at all so
stupid as he had fancied at first, and that there was something in it
that must be cleared up.
“Of course, not now,” thought Levin, “but some day later on.” Levin
felt more than ever now that there was something not clear and not
clean in his soul, and that, in regard to religion, he was in the same
position which he perceived so clearly and disliked in others, and for
which he blamed his friend Sviazhsky.
Levin spent that evening with his betrothed at Dolly’s, and was in very
high spirits. To explain to Stepan Arkadyevitch the state of excitement
in which he found himself, he said that he was happy like a dog being
trained to jump through a hoop, who, having at last caught the idea,
and done what was required of him, whines and wags its tail, and jumps
up to the table and the windows in its delight.
Chapter 2
On the day of the wedding, according to the Russian custom (the
princess and Darya Alexandrovna insisted on strictly keeping all the
customs), Levin did not see his betrothed, and dined at his hotel with
three bachelor friends, casually brought together at his rooms. These
were Sergey Ivanovitch, Katavasov, a university friend, now professor
of natural science, whom Levin had met in the street and insisted on
taking home with him, and Tchirikov, his best man, a Moscow
conciliation-board judge, Levin’s companion in his bear-hunts. The
dinner was a very merry one: Sergey Ivanovitch was in his happiest
mood, and was much amused by Katavasov’s originality. Katavasov,
feeling his originality was appreciated and understood, made the most
of it. Tchirikov always gave a lively and good-humored support to
conversation of any sort.
“See, now,” said Katavasov, drawling his words from a habit acquired in
the lecture-room, “what a capable fellow was our friend Konstantin
Dmitrievitch. I’m not speaking of present company, for he’s absent. At
the time he left the university he was fond of science, took an
interest in humanity; now one-half of his abilities is devoted to
deceiving himself, and the other to justifying the deceit.”
“A more determined enemy of matrimony than you I never saw,” said
Sergey Ivanovitch.
“Oh, no, I’m not an enemy of matrimony. I’m in favor of division of
labor. People who can do nothing else ought to rear people while the
rest work for their happiness and enlightenment. That’s how I look at
it. To muddle up two trades is the error of the amateur; I’m not one of
their number.”
“How happy I shall be when I hear that you’re in love!” said Levin.
“Please invite me to the wedding.”
“I’m in love now.”
“Yes, with a cuttlefish! You know,” Levin turned to his brother,
“Mihail Semyonovitch is writing a work on the digestive organs of
the....”
“Now, make a muddle of it! It doesn’t matter what about. And the fact
is, I certainly do love cuttlefish.”
“But that’s no hindrance to your loving your wife.”
“The cuttlefish is no hindrance. The wife is the hindrance.”
“Why so?”
“Oh, you’ll see! You care about farming, hunting,—well, you’d better
look out!”
“Arhip was here today; he said there were a lot of elks in Prudno, and
two bears,” said Tchirikov.
“Well, you must go and get them without me.”
“Ah, that’s the truth,” said Sergey Ivanovitch. “And you may say
good-bye to bear-hunting for the future—your wife won’t allow it!”
Levin smiled. The picture of his wife not letting him go was so
pleasant that he was ready to renounce the delights of looking upon
bears forever.
“Still, it’s a pity they should get those two bears without you. Do you
remember last time at Hapilovo? That was a delightful hunt!” said
Tchirikov.
Levin had not the heart to disillusion him of the notion that there
could be something delightful apart from her, and so said nothing.
“There’s some sense in this custom of saying good-bye to bachelor
life,” said Sergey Ivanovitch. “However happy you may be, you must
regret your freedom.”
“And confess there is a feeling that you want to jump out of the
window, like Gogol’s bridegroom?”
“Of course there is, but it isn’t confessed,” said Katavasov, and he
broke into loud laughter.
“Oh, well, the window’s open. Let’s start off this instant to Tver!
There’s a big she-bear; one can go right up to the lair. Seriously,
let’s go by the five o’clock! And here let them do what they like,”
said Tchirikov, smiling.
“Well, now, on my honor,” said Levin, smiling, “I can’t find in my
heart that feeling of regret for my freedom.”
“Yes, there’s such a chaos in your heart just now that you can’t find
anything there,” said Katavasov. “Wait a bit, when you set it to rights
a little, you’ll find it!”
“No; if so, I should have felt a little, apart from my feeling” (he
could not say love before them) “and happiness, a certain regret at
losing my freedom.... On the contrary, I am glad at the very loss of my
freedom.”
“Awful! It’s a hopeless case!” said Katavasov. “Well, let’s drink to
his recovery, or wish that a hundredth part of his dreams may be
realized—and that would be happiness such as never has been seen on
earth!”
Soon after dinner the guests went away to be in time to be dressed for
the wedding.
When he was left alone, and recalled the conversation of these bachelor
friends, Levin asked himself: had he in his heart that regret for his
freedom of which they had spoken? He smiled at the question. “Freedom!
What is freedom for? Happiness is only in loving and wishing her
wishes, thinking her thoughts, that is to say, not freedom at
all—that’s happiness!”
“But do I know her ideas, her wishes, her feelings?” some voice
suddenly whispered to him. The smile died away from his face, and he
grew thoughtful. And suddenly a strange feeling came upon him. There
came over him a dread and doubt—doubt of everything.
“What if she does not love me? What if she’s marrying me simply to be
married? What if she doesn’t see herself what she’s doing?” he asked
himself. “She may come to her senses, and only when she is being
married realize that she does not and cannot love me.” And strange,
most evil thoughts of her began to come to him. He was jealous of
Vronsky, as he had been a year ago, as though the evening he had seen
her with Vronsky had been yesterday. He suspected she had not told him
everything.
He jumped up quickly. “No, this can’t go on!” he said to himself in
despair. “I’ll go to her; I’ll ask her; I’ll say for the last time: we
are free, and hadn’t we better stay so? Anything’s better than endless
misery, disgrace, unfaithfulness!” With despair in his heart and bitter
anger against all men, against himself, against her, he went out of the
hotel and drove to her house.
He found her in one of the back rooms. She was sitting on a chest and
making some arrangements with her maid, sorting over heaps of dresses
of different colors, spread on the backs of chairs and on the floor.
“Ah!” she cried, seeing him, and beaming with delight. “Kostya!
Konstantin Dmitrievitch!” (These latter days she used these names
almost alternately.) “I didn’t expect you! I’m going through my
wardrobe to see what’s for whom....”
“Oh! that’s very nice!” he said gloomily, looking at the maid.
“You can go, Dunyasha, I’ll call you presently,” said Kitty. “Kostya,
what’s the matter?” she asked, definitely adopting this familiar name
as soon as the maid had gone out. She noticed his strange face,
agitated and gloomy, and a panic came over her.
“Kitty! I’m in torture. I can’t suffer alone,” he said with despair in
his voice, standing before her and looking imploringly into her eyes.
He saw already from her loving, truthful face, that nothing could come
of what he had meant to say, but yet he wanted her to reassure him
herself. “I’ve come to say that there’s still time. This can all be
stopped and set right.”
“What? I don’t understand. What is the matter?”
“What I have said a thousand times over, and can’t help thinking ...
that I’m not worthy of you. You couldn’t consent to marry me. Think a
little. You’ve made a mistake. Think it over thoroughly. You can’t love
me.... If ... better say so,” he said, not looking at her. “I shall be
wretched. Let people say what they like; anything’s better than
misery.... Far better now while there’s still time....”
“I don’t understand,” she answered, panic-stricken; “you mean you want
to give it up ... don’t want it?”
“Yes, if you don’t love me.”
“You’re out of your mind!” she cried, turning crimson with vexation.
But his face was so piteous, that she restrained her vexation, and
flinging some clothes off an armchair, she sat down beside him. “What
are you thinking? tell me all.”
“I am thinking you can’t love me. What can you love me for?”
“My God! what can I do?...” she said, and burst into tears.
“Oh! what have I done?” he cried, and kneeling before her, he fell to
kissing her hands.
When the princess came into the room five minutes later, she found them
completely reconciled. Kitty had not simply assured him that she loved