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 him,
but had gone so far—in answer to his question, what she loved him for—as
to explain what for. She told him that she loved him because she understood
him completely, because she knew what he would like, and because
everything he liked was good. And this seemed to him perfectly clear. When
the princess came to them, they were sitting side by side on the chest,
sorting the dresses and disputing over Kitty’s wanting to give Dunyasha the
brown dress she had been wearing when Levin proposed to her, while he
insisted that that dress must never be given away, but Dunyasha must have
the blue one.
“How is it you don’t see? She’s a brunette, and it won’t suit her…. I’ve
worked it all out.”
Hearing why he had come, the princess was half humorously, half
seriously angry with him, and sent him home to dress and not to hinder
Kitty’s hair-dressing, as Charles the hair-dresser was just coming.
“As it is, she’s been eating nothing lately and is losing her looks, and
then you must come and upset her with your nonsense,” she said to him.
“Get along with you, my dear!”
Levin, guilty and shamefaced, but pacified, went back to his hotel. His
brother, Darya Alexandrovna, and Stepan Arkadyevitch, all in full dress,
were waiting for him to bless him with the holy picture. There was no time
to lose. Darya Alexandrovna had to drive home again to fetch her curled
and pomaded son, who was to carry the holy pictures after the bride. Then a
carriage had to be sent for the best man, and another that would take Sergey
Ivanovitch away would have to be sent back…. Altogether there were a
great many most complicated matters to be considered and arranged. One
thing was unmistakable, that there must be no delay, as it was already half-
past six.
