Anna Karenina

L >> Leo Tolstoy >> Anna Karenina


Alexey Alexandrovitch heard her, but her words had no effect on
him now. All the hatred of that day when he had resolved on a
divorce had sprung up again in his soul. He shook himself, and
said in a shrill, loud voice:--

"Forgive I cannot, and do not wish to, and I regard it as wrong.
I have done everything for this woman, and she has trodden it all
in the mud to which she is akin. I am not a spiteful man, I have
never hated anyone, but I hate her with my whole soul, and I
cannot even forgive her, because I hate her too much for all the
wrong she has done me!" he said, with tones of hatred in his
voice.

"Love those that hate you...." Darya Alexandrovna whispered
timorously.

Alexey Alexandrovitch smiled contemptuously. That he knew long
ago, but it could not be applied to his case.

"Love those that hate you, but to love those one hates is
impossible. Forgive me for having troubled you. Everyone has
enough to bear in his own grief!" And regaining his
self-possession, Alexey Alexandrovitch quietly took leave and
went away.



Chapter 13


When they rose from table, Levin would have liked to follow Kitty
into the drawing room; but he was afraid she might dislike this,
as too obviously paying her attention. He remained in the little
ring of men, taking part in the general conversation, and without
looking at Kitty, he was aware of her movements, her looks, and
the place where she was in the drawing room.

He did at once, and without the smallest effort, keep the promise
he had made her--always to think well of all men, and to like
everyone always. The conversation fell on the village commune,
in which Pestsov saw a sort of special principle, called by him
the choral principle. Levin did not agree with Pestsov, nor with
his brother, who had a special attitude of his own, both
admitting and not admitting the significance of the Russian
commune. But he talked to them, simply trying to reconcile and
soften their differences. He was not in the least interested in
what he said himself, and even less so in what they said; all he
wanted was that they and everyone should be happy and contented.
He knew now the one thing of importance; and that one thing was
at first there, in the drawing room, and then began moving across
and came to a standstill at the door. Without turning round he
felt the eyes fixed on him, and the smile, and he could not help
turning round. She was standing in the doorway with
Shtcherbatsky, looking at him.

"I thought you were going towards the piano," said he, going up
to her. "That's something I miss in the country--music."

"No; we only came to fetch you and thank you," she said,
rewarding him with a smile that was like a gift, "for coming.
What do they want to argue for? No one ever convinces anyone,
you know."

"Yes; that's true," said Levin; "it generally happens that one
argues warmly simply because one can't make out what one's
opponent wants to prove."

Levin had often noticed in discussions between the most
intelligent people that after enormous efforts, and an enormous
expenditure of logical subtleties and words, the disputants
finally arrived at being aware that what they had so long been
struggling to prove to one another had long ago, from the
beginning of the argument, been known to both, but that they
liked different things, and would not define what they liked for
fear of its being attacked. He had often had the experience of
suddenly in a discussion grasping what it was his opponent liked
and at once liking it too, and immediately he found himself
agreeing, and then all arguments fell away as useless.
Sometimes, too, he had experienced the opposite, expressing at
last what he liked himself, which he was devising arguments to
defend, and, chancing to express it well and genuinely, he had
found his opponent at once agreeing and ceasing to dispute his
position. He tried to say this.

She knitted her brow, trying to understand. But directly he
began to illustrate his meaning, she understood at once.

"I know: one must find out what he is arguing for, what is
precious to him, then one can..."

She had completely guessed and expressed his badly expressed
idea. Levin smiled joyfully; he was struck by this transition
from the confused, verbose discussion with Pestsov and his
brother to this laconic, clear, almost wordless communication of
the most complex ideas.

Shtcherbatsky moved away from them, and Kitty, going up to a
card table, sat down, and, taking up the chalk, began drawing
diverging circles over the new green cloth.

They began again on the subject that had been started at dinner--
the liberty and occupations of women. Levin was of the opinion
of Darya Alexandrovna that a girl who did not marry should find a
woman's duties in a family. He supported this view by the fact
that no family can get on without women to help; that in every
family, poor or rich, there are and must be nurses, either
relations or hired.

"No," said Kitty, blushing, but looking at him all the more
boldly with her truthful eyes; "a girl may be so circumstanced
that she cannot live in the family without humiliation, while she
herself..."

At the hint he understood her.

"Oh, yes," he said. "Yes, yes, yes--you're right; you're right!"

And he saw all that Pestsov had been maintaining at dinner of the
liberty of woman, simply from getting a glimpse of the terror of
an old maid's existence and its humiliation in Kitty's heart; and
loving her, he felt that terror and humiliation, and at once gave
up his arguments.

A silence followed. She was still drawing with the chalk on the
table. Her eyes were shining with a soft light. Under the
influence of her mood he felt in all his being a continually
growing tension of happiness.

"Ah! I've scribbled all over the table!" she said, and, laying
down the chalk, she made a movement as though to get up.

"What! shall I be left alone--without her?" he thought with
horror, and he took the chalk. "Wait a minute," he said, sitting
down to the table. "I've long wanted to ask you one thing."

He looked straight into her caressing, though frightened eyes.

"Please, ask it."

"Here," he said; and he wrote the initial letters, _w, y, t, m, i,
c, n, b, d, t, m, n, o, t_. These letters meant, "When you told
me it could never be, did that mean never, or then?" There
seemed no likelihood that she could make out this complicated
sentence; but he looked at her as though his life depended on her
understanding the words. She glanced at him seriously, then
leaned her puckered brow on her hands and began to read. Once or
twice she stole a look at him, as though asking him, "Is it what
I think?"

"I understand," she said, flushing a little.

"What is this word?" he said, pointing to the n that stood for
_never_.

"It means _never_," she said; "but that's not true!"

He quickly rubbed out what he had written, gave her the chalk,
and stood up. She wrote, _t, i, c, n, a, d_.

Dolly was completely comforted in the depression caused by her
conversation with Alexey Alexandrovitch when she caught sight of
the two figures: Kitty with the chalk in her hand, with a shy and
happy smile looking upwards at Levin, and his handsome figure
bending over the table with glowing eyes fastened one minute on
the table and the next on her. He was suddenly radiant: he had
understood. It meant, "Then I could not answer differently."

He glanced at her questioningly, timidly.

"Only then?"

"Yes," her smile answered.

"And n...and now?" he asked.

"Well, read this. I'll tell you what I should like--should like
so much!" she wrote the initial letters, i, y, c, f, a, f, w, h.
This meant, "If you could forget and forgive what happened."

He snatched the chalk with nervous, trembling fingers, and
breaking it, wrote the initial letters of the following phrase,
"I have nothing to forget and to forgive; I have never ceased to
love you."

She glanced at him with a smile that did not waver.

"I understand," she said in a whisper.

He sat down and wrote a long phrase. She understood it all, and
without asking him, "Is it this?" took the chalk and at once
answered.

For a long while he could not understand what she had written,
and often looked into her eyes. He was stupefied with happiness.
He could not supply the word she had meant; but in her charming
eyes, beaming with happiness, he saw all he needed to know. And
he wrote three letters. But he had hardly finished writing when
she read them over her arm, and herself finished and wrote the
answer, "Yes."

"You're playing _secretaire_?" said the old prince. "But we must
really be getting along if you want to be in time at the
theater."

Levin got up and escorted Kitty to the door.

In their conversation everything had been said; it had been said
that she loved him, and that she would tell her father and mother
that he would come tomorrow morning.



Chapter 14


When Kitty had gone and Levin was left alone, he felt such
uneasiness without her, and such an impatient longing to get as
quickly, as quickly as possible, to tomorrow morning, when he
would see her again and be plighted to her forever, that he felt
afraid, as though of death, of those fourteen hours that he had
to get through without her. It was essential for him to be with
someone to talk to, so as not to be left alone, to kill time.
Stepan Arkadyevitch would have been the companion most congenial
to him, but he was going out, he said, to a _soiree_, in reality to
the ballet. Levin only had time to tell him he was happy, and
that he loved him, and would never, never forget what he had done
for him. The eyes and the smile of Stepan Arkadyevitch showed
Levin that he comprehended that feeling fittingly.

"Oh, so it's not time to die yet?" said Stepan Arkadyevitch,
pressing Levin's hand with emotion.

"N-n-no!" said Levin.

Darya Alexandrovna too, as she said good-bye to him, gave him a
sort of congratulation, saying, "How glad I am you have met
Kitty again! One must value old friends." Levin did not like
these words of Darya Alexandrovna's. She could not understand
how lofty and beyond her it all was, and she ought not to have
dared to allude to it. Levin said good-bye to them, but, not to
be left alone, he attached himself to his brother.

"Where are you going?"

"I'm going to a meeting."

"Well, I'll come with you. May I?"

"What for? Yes, come along," said Sergey Ivanovitch, smiling.
"What is the matter with you today?"

"With me? Happiness is the matter with me!" said Levin, letting
down the window of the carriage they were driving in. "You don't
mind?--it's so stifling. It's happiness is the matter with me!
Why is it you have never married?"

Sergey Ivanovitch smiled.

"I am very glad, she seems a nice gi..." Sergey Ivanovitch was
beginning.

"Don't say it! don't say it!" shouted Levin, clutching at the
collar of his fur coat with both hands, and muffling him up in
it. "She's a nice girl" were such simple, humble words, so out
of harmony with his feeling.

Sergey Ivanovitch laughed outright a merry laugh, which was rare
with him. "Well, anyway, I may say that I'm very glad of it."

"That you may do tomorrow, tomorrow and nothing more! Nothing,
nothing, silence," said Levin, and muffling him once more in his
fur coat, he added: "I do like you so! Well, is it possible for
me to be present at the meeting?"

"Of course it is."

"What is your discussion about today?" asked Levin, never ceasing
smiling.

They arrived at the meeting. Levin heard the secretary
hesitatingly read the minutes which he obviously did not himself
understand; but Levin saw from this secretary's face what a good,
nice, kind-hearted person he was. This was evident from his
confusion and embarrassment in reading the minutes. Then the
discussion began. They were disputing about the misappropriation
of certain sums and the laying of certain pipes, and Sergey
Ivanovitch was very cutting to two members, and said something at
great length with an air of triumph; and another member,
scribbling something on a bit of paper, began timidly at first,
but afterwards answered him very viciously and delightfully. And
then Sviazhsky (he was there too) said something too, very
handsomely and nobly. Levin listened to them, and saw clearly
that these missing sums and these pipes were not anything real,
and that they were not at all angry, but were all the nicest,
kindest people, and everything was as happy and charming as
possible among them. They did no harm to anyone, and were all
enjoying it. What struck Levin was that he could see through
them all today, and from little, almost imperceptible signs knew
the soul of each, and saw distinctly that they were all good at
heart. And Levin himself in particular they were all extremely
fond of that day. That was evident from the way they spoke to
him, from the friendly, affectionate way even those he did not
know looked at him.

"Well, did you like it?" Sergey Ivanovitch asked him.

"Very much. I never supposed it was so interesting! Capital!
Splendid!"

Sviazhsky went up to Levin and invited him to come round to tea
with him. Levin was utterly at a loss to comprehend or recall
what it was he had disliked in Sviazhsky, what he had failed to
find in him. He was a clever and wonderfully good-hearted man.

"Most delighted," he said, and asked after his wife and
sister-in-law. And from a queer association of ideas, because in
his imagination the idea of Sviazhsky's sister-in-law was
connected with marriage, it occurred to him that there was no one
to whom he could more suitably speak of his happiness, and he was
very glad to go and see them.

Sviazhsky questioned him about his improvements on his estate,
presupposing, as he always did, that there was no possibility of
doing anything not done already in Europe, and now this did not
in the least annoy Levin. On the contrary, he felt that
Sviazhsky was right, that the whole business was of little value,
and he saw the wonderful softness and consideration with which
Sviazhsky avoided fully expressing his correct view. The ladies
of the Sviazhsky household were particularly delightful. It
seemed to Levin that they knew all about it already and
sympathized with him, saying nothing merely from delicacy. He
stayed with them one hour, two, three, talking of all sorts of
subjects but the one thing that filled his heart, and did not
observe that he was boring them dreadfully, and that it was long
past their bedtime.

Sviazhsky went with him into the hall, yawning and wondering at
the strange humor his friend was in. It was past one o'clock.
Levin went back to his hotel, and was dismayed at the thought
that all alone now with his impatience he had ten hours still
left to get through. The servant, whose turn it was to be up all
night, lighted his candles, and would have gone away, but Levin
stopped him. This servant, Yegor, whom Levin had noticed before,
struck him as a very intelligent, excellent, and, above all,
good-hearted man.

"Well, Yegor, it's hard work not sleeping, isn't it?"

"One's got to put up with it! It's part of our work, you see.
In a gentleman's house it's easier; but then here one makes
more."

It appeared that Yegor had a family, three boys and a daughter, a
sempstress, whom he wanted to marry to a cashier in a saddler's
shop.

Levin, on hearing this, informed Yegor that, in his opinion, in
marriage the great thing was love, and that with love one would
always be happy, for happiness rests only on oneself. Yegor
listened attentively, and obviously quite took in Levin's idea,
but by way of assent to it he enunciated, greatly to Levin's
surprise, the observation that when he had lived with good
masters he had always been satisfied with his masters, and now
was perfectly satisfied with his employer, though he was a
Frenchman.

"Wonderfully good-hearted fellow!" thought Levin.

"Well, but you yourself, Yegor, when you got married, did you
love your wife?"

"Ay! and why not?" responded Yegor.

And Levin saw that Yegor too was in an excited state and
intending to express all his most heartfelt emotions.

"My life, too, has been a wonderful one. From a child up..." he
was beginning with flashing eyes, apparently catching Levin's
enthusiasm, just as people catch yawning.

But at that moment a ring was heard. Yegor departed, and Levin
was left alone. He had eaten scarcely anything at dinner, had
refused tea and supper at Sviazhsky's, but he was incapable of
thinking of supper. He had not slept the previous night, but was
incapable of thinking of sleep either. His room was cold, but he
was oppressed by heat. He opened both the movable panes in his
window and sat down to the table opposite the open panes. Over
the snow-covered roofs could be seen a decorated cross with
chains, and above it the rising triangle of Charles's Wain with
the yellowish light of Capella. He gazed at the cross, then at
the stars, drank in the fresh freezing air that flowed evenly
into the room, and followed as though in a dream the images and
memories that rose in his imagination. At four o'clock he heard
steps in the passage and peeped out at the door. It was the
gambler Myaskin, whom he knew, coming from the club. He walked
gloomily, frowning and coughing. "Poor, unlucky fellow!" thought
Levin, and tears came into his eyes from love and pity for this
man. He would have talked with him, and tried to comfort him,
but remembering that he had nothing but his shirt on, he changed
his mind and sat down again at the open pane to bathe in the cold
air and gaze at the exquisite lines of the cross, silent, but
full of meaning for him, and the mounting lurid yellow star. At
seven o'clock there was a noise of people polishing the floors,
and bells ringing in some servants' department, and Levin felt
that he was beginning to get frozen. He closed the pane, washed,
dressed, and went out into the street.




Chapter 15


The streets were still empty. Levin went to the house of the
Shtcherbatskys. The visitors' doors were closed and everything
was asleep. He walked back, went into his room again, and asked
for coffee. The day servant, not Yegor this time, brought it to
him. Levin would have entered into conversation with him, but a
bell rang for the servant, and he went out. Levin tried to drink
coffee and put some roll in his mouth, but his mouth was quite at
a loss what to do with the roll. Levin, rejecting the roll, put
on his coat and went out again for a walk. It was nine o'clock
when he reached the Shtcherbatskys' steps the second time. In
the house they were only just up, and the cook came out to go
marketing. He had to get through at least two hours more.

All that night and morning Levin lived perfectly unconsciously,
and felt perfectly lifted out of the conditions of material life.
He had eaten nothing for a whole day, he had not slept for two
nights, had spent several hours undressed in the frozen air, and
felt not simply fresher and stronger than ever, but felt utterly
independent of his body; he moved without muscular effort, and
felt as if he could do anything. He was convinced he could fly
upwards or lift the corner of the house, if need be. He spent
the remainder of the time in the street, incessantly looking at
his watch and gazing about him.

And what he saw then, he never saw again after. The children
especially going to school, the bluish doves flying down from
the roofs to the pavement, and the little loaves covered with
flour, thrust out by an unseen hand, touched him. Those loaves,
those doves, and those two boys were not earthly creatures. It
all happened at the same time: a boy ran towards a dove and
glanced smiling at Levin; the dove, with a whir of her wings,
darted away, flashing in the sun, amid grains of snow that
quivered in the air, while from a little window there came a
smell of fresh-baked bread, and the loaves were put out. All of
this together was so extraordinarily nice that Levin laughed and
cried with delight. Going a long way round by Gazetny Place and
Kislovka, he went back again to the hotel, and putting his watch
before him, he sat down to wait for twelve o'clock. In the next
room they were talking about some sort of machines, and
swindling, and coughing their morning coughs. They did not
realize that the hand was near twelve. The hand reached it.
Levin went out onto the steps. The sledge-drivers clearly knew
all about it. They crowded round Levin with happy faces,
quarreling among themselves, and offering their services. Trying
not to offend the other sledge drivers, and promising to drive
with them too, Levin took one and told him to drive to the
Shtcherbatskys'. The sledge-driver was splendid in a white
shirt-collar sticking out over his overcoat and into his strong,
full-blooded red neck. The sledge was high and comfortable, and
altogether such a one as Levin never drove in after, and the
horse was a good one, and tried to gallop but didn't seem to
move. The driver knew the Shtcherbatskys' house, and drew up at
the entrance with a curve of his arm and a "Wo!" especially
indicative of respect for his fare. The Shtcherbatskys'
hall-porter certainly knew all about it. This was evident from
the smile in his eyes and the way he said:

"Well, it's a long while since you've been to see us, Konstantin
Demitrievitch!"

Not only he knew all about it, but he was unmistakably delighted
and making efforts to conceal his joy. Looking into his kindly
old eyes, Levin realized even something new in his happiness.

"Are they up?"

"Pray walk in! Leave it here," said he, smiling, as Levin would
have come back to take his hat. That meant something.

"To whom shall I announce your honor?" asked the footman.

The footman, though a young man, and one of the new school of
footmen, a dandy, was a very kind-hearted, good fellow, and he
too knew all about it.

"The princess...the prince...the young princess..." said Levin.

The first person he saw was Mademoiselle Linon. She walked
across the room, and her ringlets and her face were beaming. He
had only just spoken to her, when suddenly he heard the rustle of
a skirt at the door, and Mademoiselle Linon vanished from Levin's
eyes, and a joyful terror came over him at the nearness of his
happiness. Mademoiselle Linon was in great haste, and leaving
him, went out at the other door. Directly she had gone out,
swift, swift light steps sounded on the parquet, and his bliss,
his life, himself--what was best in himself, what he had so long
sought and longed for--was quickly, so quickly approaching him.
She did not walk, but seemed, by some unseen force, to float to
him. He saw nothing but her clear, truthful eyes, frightened by
the same bliss of love that flooded his heart. Those eyes were
shining nearer and nearer, blinding him with their light of love.
She stopped still close to him, touching him. Her hands rose and
dropped onto his shoulders.

She had done all she could--she had run up to him and given
herself up entirely, shy and happy. He put his arms round her
and pressed his lips to her mouth that sought his kiss.

She too had not slept all night, and had been expecting him all
the morning.

Her mother and father had consented without demur, and were happy
in her happiness. She had been waiting for him. She wanted to
be the first to tell him her happiness and his. She had got
ready to see him alone, and had been delighted at the idea, and
had been shy and ashamed, and did not know herself what she was
doing. She had heard his steps and voice, and had waited at the
door for Mademoiselle Linon to go. Mademoiselle Linon had gone
away. Without thinking, without asking herself how and what, she
had gone up to him, and did as she was doing.

"Let us go to mamma!" she said, taking him by the hand. For a
long while he could say nothing, not so much because he was
afraid of desecrating the loftiness of his emotion by a word, as
that every time he tried to say something, instead of words he
felt that tears of happiness were welling up. He took her hand
and kissed it.

"Can it be true?" he said at last in a choked voice. "I can't
believe you love me, dear!"

She smiled at that "dear," and at the timidity with which he
glanced at her.

"Yes!" she said significantly, deliberately. "I am so happy!"

Not letting go his hands, she went into the drawing room. The
princess, seeing them, breathed quickly, and immediately began to
cry and then immediately began to laugh, and with a vigorous step
Levin had not expected, ran up to him, and hugging his head,
kissed him, wetting his cheeks with her tears.

"So it is all settled! I am glad. Love her. I am glad....
Kitty!"

"You've not been long settling things," said the old prince,
trying to seem unmoved; but Levin noticed that his eyes were wet
when he turned to him.

"I've long, always wished for this!" said the prince, taking
Levin by the arm and drawing him towards himself. "Even when
this little feather-head fancied..."