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on the ice. There were crack skaters there, showing off
their skill, and learners clinging to chairs with timid,
awkward movements, boys, and elderly people skating
with hygienic motives. They seemed to Levin an elect
band of blissful beings because they were here, near her.
All the skaters, it seemed, with perfect self-possession,
skated towards her, skated by her, even spoke to her, and
were happy, quite apart from her, enjoying the capital ice
and the fine weather.
Nikolay Shtcherbatsky, Kitty’s cousin, in a short jacket
and tight trousers, was sitting on a garden seat with his
skates on. Seeing Levin, he shouted to him:
‘Ah, the first skater in Russia! Been here long? Firstrate
ice—do put your skates on.’
‘I haven’t got my skates,’ Levin answered, marveling at
this boldness and ease in her presence, and not for one
second losing sight of her, though he did not look at her.
He felt as though the sun were coming near him. She was
in a corner, and turning out her slender feet in their high
boots with obvious timidity, she skated towards him. A
boy in Russian dress, desperately waving his arms and
bowed down to the ground, overtook her. She skated a
little uncertainly; taking her hands out of the little muff
that hung on a cord, she held them ready for emergency,
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and looking towards Levin, whom she had recognized, she
smiled at him, and at her own fears. When she had got
round the turn, she gave herself a push off with one foot,
and skated straight up to Shtcherbatsky. Clutching at his
arm, she nodded smiling to Levin. She was more splendid
that he had imagined her.
When he thought of her, he could call up a vivid
picture of her to himself, especially the charm of that little
fair head, so freely set on the shapely girlish shoulders, and
so full of childish brightness and good humor. The
childishness of her expression, together with the delicate
beauty of her figure, made up her special charm, and that
he fully realized. But what always struck him in her as
something unlooked for, was the expression of her eyes,
soft, serene, and truthful, and above all, her smile, which
always transported Levin to an enchanted world, where he
felt himself softened and tender, as he remembered himself
in some days of his early childhood.
‘Have you been here long?’ she said, giving him her
hand. ‘Thank you,’ she added, as he picked up the
handkerchief that had fallen out of her muff.
‘I? I’ve not long...yesterday...I mean today...I arrived,’
answered Levin, in his emotion not at once understanding
her question. ‘I was meaning to come and see you,’ he
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said; and then, recollecting with what intention he was
trying to see her, he was promptly overcome with
confusion and blushed.
‘I didn’t know you could skate, and skate so well.’
She looked at him earnestly, as though wishing to make
out the cause of his confusion.
‘Your praise is worth having. The tradition is kept up
here that you are the best of skaters,’ she said, with her
little black-gloved hand brushing a grain of hoarfrost off
her muff.
‘Yes, I used once to skate with passion; I wanted to
reach perfection.’
‘You do everything with passion, I think,’ she said
smiling. ‘I should so like to see how you skate. Put on
skates, and let us skate together.’
‘Skate together! Can that be possible?’ thought Levin,
gazing at her.
‘I’ll put them on directly,’ he said.
And he went off to get skates.
‘It’s a long while since we’ve seen you here, sir,’ said
the attendant, supporting his foot, and screwing on the
heel of the skate. ‘Except you, there’s none of the
gentlemen first-rate skaters. Will that be all right?’ said he,
tightening the strap.
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‘Oh, yes, yes; make haste, please,’ answered Levin, with
difficulty restraining the smile of rapture which would
overspread his face. ‘Yes,’ he thought, ‘this now is life, this
is happiness! Together, she said; let us skate together!
Speak to her now? But that’s just why I’m afraid to
speak—because I’m happy now, happy in hope, anyway....
And then?.... But I must! I must! I must! Away with
weakness!’
Levin rose to his feet, took off his overcoat, and
scurrying over the rough ice round the hut, came out on
the smooth ice and skated without effort, as it were, by
simple exercise of will, increasing and slackening speed
and turning his course. He approached with timidity, but
again her smile reassured him.
She gave him her hand, and they set off side by side,
going faster and faster, and the more rapidly they moved
the more tightly she grasped his hand.
‘With you I should soon learn; I somehow feel
confidence in you,’ she said to him.
‘And I have confidence in myself when you are leaning
on me,’ he said, but was at once panic-stricken at what he
had said, and blushed. And indeed, no sooner had he
uttered these words, when all at once, like the sun going
behind a cloud, her face lost all its friendliness, and Levin
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detected the familiar change in her expression that
denoted the working of thought; a crease showed on her
smooth brow.
‘Is there anything troubling you?—though I’ve no right
to ask such a question,’ he added hurriedly.
‘Oh, why so?.... No, I have nothing to trouble me,’ she
responded coldly; and she added immediately: ‘You
haven’t seen Mlle. Linon, have you?’
‘Not yet.’
‘Go and speak to her, she likes you so much.’
‘What’s wrong? I have offended her. Lord help me!’
thought Levin, and he flew towards the old Frenchwoman
with the gray ringlets, who was sitting on a bench. Smiling
and showing her false teeth, she greeted him as an old
friend.
‘Yes, you see we’re growing up,’ she said to him,
glancing towards Kitty, ‘and growing old. Tiny bear has
grown big now!’ pursued the Frenchwoman, laughing,
and she reminded him of his joke about the three young
ladies whom he had compared to the three bears in the
English nursery tale. ‘Do you remember that’s what you
used to call them?’
He remembered absolutely nothing, but she had been
laughing at the joke for ten years now, and was fond of it.
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‘Now, go and skate, go and skate. Our Kitty has
learned to skate nicely, hasn’t she?’
When Levin darted up to Kitty her face was no longer
stern; her eyes looked at him with the same sincerity and
friendliness, but Levin fancied that in her friendliness there
was a certain note of deliberate composure. And he felt
depressed. After talking a little of her old governess and
her peculiarities, she questioned him about his life.
‘Surely you must be dull in the country in the winter,
aren’t you?’ she said.
‘No, I’m not dull, I am very busy,’ he said, feeling that
she was holding him in check by her composed tone,
which he would not have the force to break through, just
as it had been at the beginning of the winter.
‘Are you going to stay in town long?’ Kitty questioned
him.
‘I don’t know,’ he answered, not thinking of what he
was saying. The thought that if he were held in check by
her tone of quiet friendliness he would end by going back
again without deciding anything came into his mind, and
he resolved to make a struggle against it.
‘How is it you don’t know?’
‘I don’t know. It depends upon you,’ he said, and was
immediately horror-stricken at his own words.
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Whether it was that she had heard his words, or that
she did not want to hear them, she made a sort of stumble,
twice struck out, and hurriedly skated away from him. She
skated up to Mlle. Linon, said something to her, and went
towards the pavilion where the ladies took off their skates.
‘My God! what have I done! Merciful God! help me,
guide me,’ said Levin, praying inwardly, and at the same
time, feeling a need of violent exercise, he skated about
describing inner and outer circles.
At that moment one of the young men, the best of the
skaters of the day, came out of the coffee-house in his
skates, with a cigarette in his mouth. Taking a run, he
dashed down the steps in his skates, crashing and bounding
up and down. He flew down, and without even changing
the position of his hands, skated away over the ice.
‘Ah, that’s a new trick!’ said Levin, and he promptly
ran up to the top to do this new trick.
‘Don’t break you neck! it needs practice!’ Nikolay
Shtcherbatsky shouted after him.
Levin went to the steps, took a run from above as best
he cold, and dashed down, preserving his balance in this
unwonted movement with his hands. On the last step he
stumbled, but barely touching the ice with his hand, with
a violent effort recovered himself, and skated off, laughing.
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‘How splendid, how nice he is!’ Kitty was thinking at
that time, as she came out of the pavilion with Mlle.
Linon, and looked towards him with a smile of quiet
affection, as though he were a favorite brother. ‘And can it
be my fault, can I have done anything wrong? They talk
of flirtation. I know it’s not he that I love; but still I am
happy with him, and he’s so jolly. Only, why did he say
that?...’ she mused.
Catching sight of Kitty going away, and her mother
meeting her at the steps, Levin, flushed from his rapid
exercise, stood still and pondered a minute. He took off
his skates, and overtook the mother and daughter at the
entrance of the gardens.
‘Delighted to see you,’ said Princess Shtcherbatskaya.
‘On Thursdays we are home, as always.’
‘Today, then?’
‘We shall be pleased to see you,’ the princess said stiffly.
This stiffness hurt Kitty, and she could not resist the
desire to smooth over her mother’s coldness. She turned
her head, and with a smile said:
‘Good-bye till this evening.’
At that moment Stepan Arkadyevitch, his hat cocked
on one side, with beaming face and eyes, strode into the
garden like a conquering hero. But as he approached his
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mother-in-law, he responded in a mournful and crestfallen
tone to her inquiries about Dolly’s health. After a little
subdued and dejected conversation with his mother-inlaw,
he threw out his chest again, and put his arm in
Levin’s.
‘Well, shall we set off?’ he asked. ‘I’ve been thinking
about you all this time, and I’m very, very glad you’ve
come,’ he said, looking him in the face with a significant
air.
‘Yes, come along,’ answered Levin in ecstasy, hearing
unceasingly the sound of that voice saying, ‘Good-bye till
this evening,’ and seeing the smile with which it was said.
‘To the England or the Hermitage?’
‘I don’t mind which.’
‘All right, then, the England,’ said Stepan Arkadyevitch,
selecting that restaurant because he owed more there than
at the Hermitage, and consequently considered it mean to
avoid it. ‘Have you got a sledge? That’s first-rate, for I sent
my carriage home.’
The friends hardly spoke all the way. Levin was
wondering what that change in Kitty’s expression had
meant, and alternately assuring himself that there was
hope, and falling into despair, seeing clearly that his hopes
were insane, and yet all the while he felt himself quite
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another man, utterly unlike what he had been before her
smile and those words, ‘Good-bye till this evening.’
Stepan Arkadyevitch was absorbed during the drive in
composing the menu of the dinner.
‘You like trout, don’t you?’ he said to Levin as they
were arriving.
‘Eh?’ responded Levin. ‘Turbot? Yes, I’m AWFULLY
fond of turbot.’
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Chapter 10
When Levin went into the restaurant with Oblonsky,
he could not help noticing a certain peculiarity of
expression, as it were, a restrained radiance, about the face
and whole figure of Stepan Arkadyevitch. Oblonsky took
off his overcoat, and with his hat over one ear walked into
the dining room, giving directions to the Tatar waiters,
who were clustered about him in evening coats, bearing
napkins. Bowing to right and left to the people he met,
and here as everywhere joyously greeting acquaintances,
he went up to the sideboard for a preliminary appetizer of
fish and vodka, and said to the painted Frenchwoman
decked in ribbons, lace, and ringlets, behind the counter,
something so amusing that even that Frenchwoman was
moved to genuine laughter. Levin for his part refrained
from taking any vodka simply because he felt such a
loathing of that Frenchwoman, all made up, it seemed, of
false hair, poudre de riz, and vinaigre de toilette. He made
haste to move away from her, as from a dirty place. His
whole soul was filled with memories of Kitty, and there
was a smile of triumph and happiness shining in his eyes.
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‘This way, your excellency, please. Your excellency
won’t be disturbed here,’ said a particularly pertinacious,
white-headed old Tatar with immense hips and coattails
gaping widely behind. ‘Walk in, your excellency,’ he said
to Levin; by way of showing his respect to Stepan
Arkadyevitch, being attentive to his guest as well.
Instantly flinging a fresh cloth over the round table
under the bronze chandelier, though it already had a table
cloth on it, he pushed up velvet chairs, and came to a
standstill before Stepan Arkadyevitch with a napkin and a
bill of fare in his hands, awaiting his commands.
‘If you prefer it, your excellency, a private room will be
free directly; Prince Golistin with a lady. Fresh oysters
have come in.’
‘Ah! oysters.’
Stepan Arkadyevitch became thoughtful.
‘How if we were to change our program, Levin?’ he
said keeping his finger on the bill of fare. And his face
expressed serious hesitation. ‘Are the oysters good? Mind
now.’
‘They’re Flensburg, your excellency. We’ve no
Ostend.’
‘Flensburg will do, but are they fresh?’
‘Only arrived yesterday.’
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‘Well, then, how if we were to begin with oysters, and
so change the whole program? Eh?’
‘It’s all the same to me. I should like cabbage soup and
porridge better than anything; but of course there’s
nothing like that here.’
‘Porridge a la Russe, your honor would like?’ said the
Tatar, bending down to Levin, like a nurse speaking to a
child.
‘No, joking apart, whatever you choose is sure to be
good. I’ve been skating, and I’m hungry. And don’t
imagine,’ he added, detecting a look of dissatisfaction on
Oblonsky’s face, ‘that I shan’t appreciate your choice. I am
fond of good things.’
‘I should hope so! After all, it’s one of the pleasures of
life,’ said Stepan Arkadyevitch. ‘Well, then, my friend,
you give us two—or better say three—dozen oysters, clear
soup with vegetables..’
‘Printaniere,’ prompted the Tatar. But Stepan
Arkadyevitch apparently did not care to allow him the
satisfaction of giving the French names of the dishes.
‘With vegetables in it, you know. Then turbot with
thick sauce, then...roast beef; and mind it’s good. Yes, and
capons, perhaps, and then sweets.’
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Anna Karenina
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The Tatar, recollecting that it was Stepan
Arkadyevitch’s way not to call the dishes by the names in
the French bill of fare, did not repeat them after him, but
could not resist rehearsing the whole menus to himself
according to the bill:—‘Soupe printaniere, turbot, sauce
Beaumarchais, poulard a l’estragon, macedoine de
fruits...etc.,’ and then instantly, as though worked by
springs, laying down one bound bill of fare, he took up
another, the list of wines, and submitted it to Stepan
Arkadyevitch.
‘What shall we drink?’
‘What you like, only not too much. Champagne,’ said
Levin.
‘What! to start with? You’re right though, I dare say.
Do you like the white seal?’
‘Cachet blanc,’ prompted the Tatar.
‘Very well, then, give us that brand with the oysters,
and then we’ll see.’
‘Yes, sir. And what table wine?’
‘You can give us Nuits. Oh, no, better the classic
Chablis.’
‘Yes, sir. And YOUR cheese, your excellency?’
‘Oh, yes, Parmesan. Or would you like another?’
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‘No, it’s all the same to me,’ said Levin, unable to
suppress a smile.
And the Tatar ran off with flying coattails, and in five
minutes darted in with a dish of opened oysters on
mother-of-pearl shells, and a bottle between his fingers.
Stepan Arkadyevitch crushed the starchy napkin,
tucked it into his waistcoat, and settling his arms
comfortably, started on the oysters.
‘Not bad,’ he said, stripping the oysters from the pearly
shell with a silver fork, and swallowing them one after
another. ‘Not bad,’ he repeated, turning his dewy, brilliant
eyes from Levin to the Tatar.
Levin ate the oysters indeed, though white bread and
cheese would have pleased him better. But he was
admiring Oblonsky. Even the Tatar, uncorking the bottle
and pouring the sparkling wine into the delicate glasses,
glanced at Stepan Arkadyevitch, and settled his white
cravat with a perceptible smile of satisfaction.
‘You don’t care much for oysters, do you?’ said Stepan
Arkadyevitch, emptying his wine glass, ‘or you’re worried
about something. Eh?’
He wanted Levin to be in good spirits. But it was not
that Levin was not in good spirits; he was ill at ease. With
what he had in his soul, he felt sore and uncomfortable in
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the restaurant, in the midst of private rooms where men
were dining with ladies, in all this fuss and bustle; the
surroundings of bronzes, looking glasses, gas, and
waiters—all of it was offensive to him. He was afraid of
sullying what his soul was brimful of.
‘I? Yes, I am; but besides, all this bothers me,’ he said.
‘You can’t conceive how queer it all seems to a country
person like me, as queer as that gentleman’s nails I saw at
your place..’
‘Yes, I saw how much interested you were in poor
Grinevitch’s nails,’ said Stepan Arkadyevitch, laughing.
‘It’s too much for me,’ responded Levin. ‘Do try, now,
and put yourself in my place, take the point of view of a
country person. We in the country try to bring our hands
into such a state as will be most convenient for working
with. So we cut our nails; sometimes we turn up our
sleeves. And here people purposely let their nails grow as
long as they will, and link on small saucers by way of
studs, so that they can do nothing with their hands.’
Stepan Arkadyevitch smiled gaily.
‘Oh, yes, that’s just a sign that he has no need to do
coarse work. His work is with the mind..’
‘Maybe. But still it’s queer to me, just as at this
moment it seems queer to me that we country folks try to
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get our meals over as soon as we can, so as to be ready for
our work, while here are we trying to drag out our meal
as long as possible, and with that object eating oysters..’
‘Why, of course,’ objected Stepan Arkadyevitch. ‘But
that’s just the aim of civilization—to make everything a
source of enjoyment.’
‘Well, if that’s its aim, I’d rather be a savage.’
‘And so you are a savage. All you Levins are savages.’
Levin sighed. He remembered his brother Nikolay, and
felt ashamed and sore, and he scowled; but Oblonsky
began speaking of a subject which at once drew his
attention.
‘Oh, I say, are you going tonight to our people, the
Shtcherbatskys’, I mean?’ he said, his eyes sparkling
significantly as he pushed away the empty rough shells,
and drew the cheese towards him.
‘Yes, I shall certainly go,’ replied Levin; ‘though I
fancied the princess was not very warm in her invitation.’
‘What nonsense! That’s her manner.... Come, boy, the
soup!.... That’s her manner—grande dame,’ said Stepan
Arkadyevitch. ‘I’m coming, too, but I have to go to the
Countess Bonina’s rehearsal. Come, isn’t it true that
you’re a savage? How do you explain the sudden way in
which you vanished from Moscow? The Shtcherbatskys
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were continually asking me about you, as though I ought
to know. The only thing I know is that you always do
what no one else does.’
‘Yes,’ said Levin, slowly and with emotion, ‘you’re
right. I am a savage. Only, my savageness is not in having
gone away, but in coming now. Now I have come..’
‘Oh, what a lucky fellow you are!’ broke in Stepan
Arkadyevitch, looking into Levin’s eyes.
‘Why?’
‘I know a gallant steed by tokens sure, And by his eyes
I know a youth in love,’ declaimed Stepan Arkadyevitch.
‘Everything is before you.’
‘Why, is it over for you already?’
‘No; not over exactly, but the future is yours, and the
present is mine, and the present—well, it’s not all that it
might be.’
‘How so?’
‘Oh, things go wrong. But I don’t want to talk of
myself, and besides I can’t explain it all,’ said Stepan
Arkadyevitch. ‘Well, why have you come to Moscow,
then?.... Hi! take away!’ he called to the Tatar.
‘You guess?’ responded Levin, his eyes like deep wells
of light fixed on Stepan Arkadyevitch.
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‘I guess, but I can’t be the first to talk about it. You can
see by that whether I guess right or wrong,’ said Stepan
Arkadyevitch, gazing at Levin with a subtle smile.
‘Well, and what have you to say to me?’ said Levin in a
quivering voice, feeling that all the muscles of his face
were quivering too. ‘How do you look at the question?’
Stepan Arkadyevitch slowly emptied his glass of
Chablis, never taking his eyes off Levin.
‘I?’ said Stepan Arkadyevitch, ‘there’s nothing I desire
so much as that—nothing! It would be the best thing that
could be.’
‘But you’re not making a mistake? You know what
we’re speaking of?’ said Levin, piercing him with his eyes.
‘You think it’s possible?’
‘I think it’s possible. Why not possible?’
‘No! do you really think it’s possible? No, tell me all
you think! Oh, but if...if refusal’s in store for me!... Indeed
I feel sure..’
‘Why should you think that?’ said Stepan Arkadyevitch,
smiling at his excitement.
‘It seems so to me sometimes. That will be awful for
me, and for her too.’
‘Oh, well, anyway there’s nothing awful in it for a girl.
Every girl’s proud of an offer.’
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‘Yes, every girl, but not she.’
Stepan Arkadyevitch smiled. He so well knew that
feeling of Levin’s, that for him all the girls in the world
were divided into two classes: one class—all the girls in the
world except her, and those girls with all sorts of human
weaknesses, and very ordinary girls: the other class—she
alone, having no weaknesses of any sort and higher than
all humanity.
‘Stay, take some sauce,’ he said, holding back Levin’s
hand as it pushed away the sauce.
Levin obediently helped himself to sauce, but would
not let Stepan Arkadyevitch go on with his dinner.
‘No, stop a minute, stop a minute,’ he said. ‘You must
understand that it’s a question of life and death for me. I
have never spoken to any one of this. And there’s no one
I could speak of it to, except you. You know we’re utterly
unlike each other, different tastes and views and
everything; but I know you’re fond of me and understand
me, and that’s why I like you awfully. But for God’s sake,
be quite straightforward with me.’
‘I tell you what I think,’ said Stepan Arkadyevitch,
smiling. ‘But I’ll say more: my wife is a wonderful
woman...’ Stepan Arkadyevitch sighed, remembering his
position with his wife, and, after a moment’s silence,
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resumed—‘She has a gift of foreseeing things. She sees
right through people; but that’s not all; she knows what
will come to pass, especially in the way of marriages. She
foretold, for instance, that Princess Shahovskaya would
marry Brenteln. No one would believe it, but it came to
pass. And she’s on your side.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘It’s not only that she likes you—she says that Kitty is
certain to be your wife.’
At these words Levin’s face suddenly lighted up with a
smile, a smile not far from tears of emotion.
‘She says that!’ cried Levin. ‘I always said she was
exquisite, your wife. There, that’s enough, enough said
about it,’ he said, getting up from his seat.
‘All right, but do sit down.’
But Levin could not sit down. He walked with his firm
tread twice up and down the little cage of a room, blinked
his eyelids that his tears might not fall, and only then sat
down to the table.
‘You must understand,’ said he, ‘it’s not love. I’ve been
in love, but it’s not that. It’s not my feeling, but a sort of
force outside me has taken possession of me. I went away,
you see, because I made up my mind that it could never
be, you understand, as a happiness that does not come on
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earth; but I’ve struggled with myself, I see there’s no living
without it. And it must be settled.’
‘What did you go away for?’
‘Ah, stop a minute! Ah, the thoughts that come
crowding on one! The questions one must ask oneself!
Listen. You can’t imagine what you’ve done for me by
what you said. I’m so happy that I’ve become positively
hateful; I’ve forgotten everything. I heard today that my
brother Nikolay...you know, he’s here...I had even
forgotten him. It seems to me that he’s happy too. It’s a
sort of madness. But one thing’s awful.... Here, you’ve
been married, you know the feeling...it’s awful that we—
old—with a past... not of love, but of sins...are brought all
at once so near to a creature pure and innocent; it’s
loathsome, and that’s why one can’t help feeling oneself
unworthy.’
‘Oh, well, you’ve not many sins on your conscience.’
‘Alas! all the same,’ said Levin, ‘when with loathing I
go over my life, I shudder and curse and bitterly regret
it.... Yes.’
‘What would you have? The world’s made so,’ said
Stepan Arkadyevitch.
‘The one comfort is like that prayer, which I always
liked: ‘Forgive me not according to my unworthiness, but
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according to Thy lovingkindness.’ That’s the only way she
can forgive me.’
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Chapter 11
Levin emptied his glass, and they were silent for a
while.
‘There’s one other thing I ought to tell you. Do you
know Vronsky?’ Stepan Arkadyevitch asked Levin.
‘No, I don’t. Why do you ask?’
‘Give us another bottle,’ Stepan Arkadyevitch directed
the Tatar, who was filling up their glasses and fidgeting
round them just when he was not wanted.
‘Why you ought to know Vronsky is that he’s one of
your rivals.’
‘Who’s Vronsky?’ said Levin, and his face was suddenly
transformed from the look of childlike ecstasy which
Oblonsky had just been admiring to an angry and
unpleasant expression.
‘Vronsky is one of the sons of Count Kirill Ivanovitch
Vronsky, and one of the finest specimens of the gilded
youth of Petersburg. I made his acquaintance in Tver
when I was there on official business, and he came there
for the levy of recruits. Fearfully rich, handsome, great
connections, an aide-de-camp, and with all that a very
nice, good-natured fellow. But he’s more than simply a
Anna Karenina
on the ice. There were crack skaters there, showing off
their skill, and learners clinging to chairs with timid,
awkward movements, boys, and elderly people skating
with hygienic motives. They seemed to Levin an elect
band of blissful beings because they were here, near her.
All the skaters, it seemed, with perfect self-possession,
skated towards her, skated by her, even spoke to her, and
were happy, quite apart from her, enjoying the capital ice
and the fine weather.
Nikolay Shtcherbatsky, Kitty’s cousin, in a short jacket
and tight trousers, was sitting on a garden seat with his
skates on. Seeing Levin, he shouted to him:
‘Ah, the first skater in Russia! Been here long? Firstrate
ice—do put your skates on.’
‘I haven’t got my skates,’ Levin answered, marveling at
this boldness and ease in her presence, and not for one
second losing sight of her, though he did not look at her.
He felt as though the sun were coming near him. She was
in a corner, and turning out her slender feet in their high
boots with obvious timidity, she skated towards him. A
boy in Russian dress, desperately waving his arms and
bowed down to the ground, overtook her. She skated a
little uncertainly; taking her hands out of the little muff
that hung on a cord, she held them ready for emergency,
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and looking towards Levin, whom she had recognized, she
smiled at him, and at her own fears. When she had got
round the turn, she gave herself a push off with one foot,
and skated straight up to Shtcherbatsky. Clutching at his
arm, she nodded smiling to Levin. She was more splendid
that he had imagined her.
When he thought of her, he could call up a vivid
picture of her to himself, especially the charm of that little
fair head, so freely set on the shapely girlish shoulders, and
so full of childish brightness and good humor. The
childishness of her expression, together with the delicate
beauty of her figure, made up her special charm, and that
he fully realized. But what always struck him in her as
something unlooked for, was the expression of her eyes,
soft, serene, and truthful, and above all, her smile, which
always transported Levin to an enchanted world, where he
felt himself softened and tender, as he remembered himself
in some days of his early childhood.
‘Have you been here long?’ she said, giving him her
hand. ‘Thank you,’ she added, as he picked up the
handkerchief that had fallen out of her muff.
‘I? I’ve not long...yesterday...I mean today...I arrived,’
answered Levin, in his emotion not at once understanding
her question. ‘I was meaning to come and see you,’ he
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said; and then, recollecting with what intention he was
trying to see her, he was promptly overcome with
confusion and blushed.
‘I didn’t know you could skate, and skate so well.’
She looked at him earnestly, as though wishing to make
out the cause of his confusion.
‘Your praise is worth having. The tradition is kept up
here that you are the best of skaters,’ she said, with her
little black-gloved hand brushing a grain of hoarfrost off
her muff.
‘Yes, I used once to skate with passion; I wanted to
reach perfection.’
‘You do everything with passion, I think,’ she said
smiling. ‘I should so like to see how you skate. Put on
skates, and let us skate together.’
‘Skate together! Can that be possible?’ thought Levin,
gazing at her.
‘I’ll put them on directly,’ he said.
And he went off to get skates.
‘It’s a long while since we’ve seen you here, sir,’ said
the attendant, supporting his foot, and screwing on the
heel of the skate. ‘Except you, there’s none of the
gentlemen first-rate skaters. Will that be all right?’ said he,
tightening the strap.
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‘Oh, yes, yes; make haste, please,’ answered Levin, with
difficulty restraining the smile of rapture which would
overspread his face. ‘Yes,’ he thought, ‘this now is life, this
is happiness! Together, she said; let us skate together!
Speak to her now? But that’s just why I’m afraid to
speak—because I’m happy now, happy in hope, anyway....
And then?.... But I must! I must! I must! Away with
weakness!’
Levin rose to his feet, took off his overcoat, and
scurrying over the rough ice round the hut, came out on
the smooth ice and skated without effort, as it were, by
simple exercise of will, increasing and slackening speed
and turning his course. He approached with timidity, but
again her smile reassured him.
She gave him her hand, and they set off side by side,
going faster and faster, and the more rapidly they moved
the more tightly she grasped his hand.
‘With you I should soon learn; I somehow feel
confidence in you,’ she said to him.
‘And I have confidence in myself when you are leaning
on me,’ he said, but was at once panic-stricken at what he
had said, and blushed. And indeed, no sooner had he
uttered these words, when all at once, like the sun going
behind a cloud, her face lost all its friendliness, and Levin
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detected the familiar change in her expression that
denoted the working of thought; a crease showed on her
smooth brow.
‘Is there anything troubling you?—though I’ve no right
to ask such a question,’ he added hurriedly.
‘Oh, why so?.... No, I have nothing to trouble me,’ she
responded coldly; and she added immediately: ‘You
haven’t seen Mlle. Linon, have you?’
‘Not yet.’
‘Go and speak to her, she likes you so much.’
‘What’s wrong? I have offended her. Lord help me!’
thought Levin, and he flew towards the old Frenchwoman
with the gray ringlets, who was sitting on a bench. Smiling
and showing her false teeth, she greeted him as an old
friend.
‘Yes, you see we’re growing up,’ she said to him,
glancing towards Kitty, ‘and growing old. Tiny bear has
grown big now!’ pursued the Frenchwoman, laughing,
and she reminded him of his joke about the three young
ladies whom he had compared to the three bears in the
English nursery tale. ‘Do you remember that’s what you
used to call them?’
He remembered absolutely nothing, but she had been
laughing at the joke for ten years now, and was fond of it.
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‘Now, go and skate, go and skate. Our Kitty has
learned to skate nicely, hasn’t she?’
When Levin darted up to Kitty her face was no longer
stern; her eyes looked at him with the same sincerity and
friendliness, but Levin fancied that in her friendliness there
was a certain note of deliberate composure. And he felt
depressed. After talking a little of her old governess and
her peculiarities, she questioned him about his life.
‘Surely you must be dull in the country in the winter,
aren’t you?’ she said.
‘No, I’m not dull, I am very busy,’ he said, feeling that
she was holding him in check by her composed tone,
which he would not have the force to break through, just
as it had been at the beginning of the winter.
‘Are you going to stay in town long?’ Kitty questioned
him.
‘I don’t know,’ he answered, not thinking of what he
was saying. The thought that if he were held in check by
her tone of quiet friendliness he would end by going back
again without deciding anything came into his mind, and
he resolved to make a struggle against it.
‘How is it you don’t know?’
‘I don’t know. It depends upon you,’ he said, and was
immediately horror-stricken at his own words.
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Whether it was that she had heard his words, or that
she did not want to hear them, she made a sort of stumble,
twice struck out, and hurriedly skated away from him. She
skated up to Mlle. Linon, said something to her, and went
towards the pavilion where the ladies took off their skates.
‘My God! what have I done! Merciful God! help me,
guide me,’ said Levin, praying inwardly, and at the same
time, feeling a need of violent exercise, he skated about
describing inner and outer circles.
At that moment one of the young men, the best of the
skaters of the day, came out of the coffee-house in his
skates, with a cigarette in his mouth. Taking a run, he
dashed down the steps in his skates, crashing and bounding
up and down. He flew down, and without even changing
the position of his hands, skated away over the ice.
‘Ah, that’s a new trick!’ said Levin, and he promptly
ran up to the top to do this new trick.
‘Don’t break you neck! it needs practice!’ Nikolay
Shtcherbatsky shouted after him.
Levin went to the steps, took a run from above as best
he cold, and dashed down, preserving his balance in this
unwonted movement with his hands. On the last step he
stumbled, but barely touching the ice with his hand, with
a violent effort recovered himself, and skated off, laughing.
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‘How splendid, how nice he is!’ Kitty was thinking at
that time, as she came out of the pavilion with Mlle.
Linon, and looked towards him with a smile of quiet
affection, as though he were a favorite brother. ‘And can it
be my fault, can I have done anything wrong? They talk
of flirtation. I know it’s not he that I love; but still I am
happy with him, and he’s so jolly. Only, why did he say
that?...’ she mused.
Catching sight of Kitty going away, and her mother
meeting her at the steps, Levin, flushed from his rapid
exercise, stood still and pondered a minute. He took off
his skates, and overtook the mother and daughter at the
entrance of the gardens.
‘Delighted to see you,’ said Princess Shtcherbatskaya.
‘On Thursdays we are home, as always.’
‘Today, then?’
‘We shall be pleased to see you,’ the princess said stiffly.
This stiffness hurt Kitty, and she could not resist the
desire to smooth over her mother’s coldness. She turned
her head, and with a smile said:
‘Good-bye till this evening.’
At that moment Stepan Arkadyevitch, his hat cocked
on one side, with beaming face and eyes, strode into the
garden like a conquering hero. But as he approached his
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mother-in-law, he responded in a mournful and crestfallen
tone to her inquiries about Dolly’s health. After a little
subdued and dejected conversation with his mother-inlaw,
he threw out his chest again, and put his arm in
Levin’s.
‘Well, shall we set off?’ he asked. ‘I’ve been thinking
about you all this time, and I’m very, very glad you’ve
come,’ he said, looking him in the face with a significant
air.
‘Yes, come along,’ answered Levin in ecstasy, hearing
unceasingly the sound of that voice saying, ‘Good-bye till
this evening,’ and seeing the smile with which it was said.
‘To the England or the Hermitage?’
‘I don’t mind which.’
‘All right, then, the England,’ said Stepan Arkadyevitch,
selecting that restaurant because he owed more there than
at the Hermitage, and consequently considered it mean to
avoid it. ‘Have you got a sledge? That’s first-rate, for I sent
my carriage home.’
The friends hardly spoke all the way. Levin was
wondering what that change in Kitty’s expression had
meant, and alternately assuring himself that there was
hope, and falling into despair, seeing clearly that his hopes
were insane, and yet all the while he felt himself quite
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another man, utterly unlike what he had been before her
smile and those words, ‘Good-bye till this evening.’
Stepan Arkadyevitch was absorbed during the drive in
composing the menu of the dinner.
‘You like trout, don’t you?’ he said to Levin as they
were arriving.
‘Eh?’ responded Levin. ‘Turbot? Yes, I’m AWFULLY
fond of turbot.’
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Chapter 10
When Levin went into the restaurant with Oblonsky,
he could not help noticing a certain peculiarity of
expression, as it were, a restrained radiance, about the face
and whole figure of Stepan Arkadyevitch. Oblonsky took
off his overcoat, and with his hat over one ear walked into
the dining room, giving directions to the Tatar waiters,
who were clustered about him in evening coats, bearing
napkins. Bowing to right and left to the people he met,
and here as everywhere joyously greeting acquaintances,
he went up to the sideboard for a preliminary appetizer of
fish and vodka, and said to the painted Frenchwoman
decked in ribbons, lace, and ringlets, behind the counter,
something so amusing that even that Frenchwoman was
moved to genuine laughter. Levin for his part refrained
from taking any vodka simply because he felt such a
loathing of that Frenchwoman, all made up, it seemed, of
false hair, poudre de riz, and vinaigre de toilette. He made
haste to move away from her, as from a dirty place. His
whole soul was filled with memories of Kitty, and there
was a smile of triumph and happiness shining in his eyes.
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‘This way, your excellency, please. Your excellency
won’t be disturbed here,’ said a particularly pertinacious,
white-headed old Tatar with immense hips and coattails
gaping widely behind. ‘Walk in, your excellency,’ he said
to Levin; by way of showing his respect to Stepan
Arkadyevitch, being attentive to his guest as well.
Instantly flinging a fresh cloth over the round table
under the bronze chandelier, though it already had a table
cloth on it, he pushed up velvet chairs, and came to a
standstill before Stepan Arkadyevitch with a napkin and a
bill of fare in his hands, awaiting his commands.
‘If you prefer it, your excellency, a private room will be
free directly; Prince Golistin with a lady. Fresh oysters
have come in.’
‘Ah! oysters.’
Stepan Arkadyevitch became thoughtful.
‘How if we were to change our program, Levin?’ he
said keeping his finger on the bill of fare. And his face
expressed serious hesitation. ‘Are the oysters good? Mind
now.’
‘They’re Flensburg, your excellency. We’ve no
Ostend.’
‘Flensburg will do, but are they fresh?’
‘Only arrived yesterday.’
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‘Well, then, how if we were to begin with oysters, and
so change the whole program? Eh?’
‘It’s all the same to me. I should like cabbage soup and
porridge better than anything; but of course there’s
nothing like that here.’
‘Porridge a la Russe, your honor would like?’ said the
Tatar, bending down to Levin, like a nurse speaking to a
child.
‘No, joking apart, whatever you choose is sure to be
good. I’ve been skating, and I’m hungry. And don’t
imagine,’ he added, detecting a look of dissatisfaction on
Oblonsky’s face, ‘that I shan’t appreciate your choice. I am
fond of good things.’
‘I should hope so! After all, it’s one of the pleasures of
life,’ said Stepan Arkadyevitch. ‘Well, then, my friend,
you give us two—or better say three—dozen oysters, clear
soup with vegetables..’
‘Printaniere,’ prompted the Tatar. But Stepan
Arkadyevitch apparently did not care to allow him the
satisfaction of giving the French names of the dishes.
‘With vegetables in it, you know. Then turbot with
thick sauce, then...roast beef; and mind it’s good. Yes, and
capons, perhaps, and then sweets.’
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The Tatar, recollecting that it was Stepan
Arkadyevitch’s way not to call the dishes by the names in
the French bill of fare, did not repeat them after him, but
could not resist rehearsing the whole menus to himself
according to the bill:—‘Soupe printaniere, turbot, sauce
Beaumarchais, poulard a l’estragon, macedoine de
fruits...etc.,’ and then instantly, as though worked by
springs, laying down one bound bill of fare, he took up
another, the list of wines, and submitted it to Stepan
Arkadyevitch.
‘What shall we drink?’
‘What you like, only not too much. Champagne,’ said
Levin.
‘What! to start with? You’re right though, I dare say.
Do you like the white seal?’
‘Cachet blanc,’ prompted the Tatar.
‘Very well, then, give us that brand with the oysters,
and then we’ll see.’
‘Yes, sir. And what table wine?’
‘You can give us Nuits. Oh, no, better the classic
Chablis.’
‘Yes, sir. And YOUR cheese, your excellency?’
‘Oh, yes, Parmesan. Or would you like another?’
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‘No, it’s all the same to me,’ said Levin, unable to
suppress a smile.
And the Tatar ran off with flying coattails, and in five
minutes darted in with a dish of opened oysters on
mother-of-pearl shells, and a bottle between his fingers.
Stepan Arkadyevitch crushed the starchy napkin,
tucked it into his waistcoat, and settling his arms
comfortably, started on the oysters.
‘Not bad,’ he said, stripping the oysters from the pearly
shell with a silver fork, and swallowing them one after
another. ‘Not bad,’ he repeated, turning his dewy, brilliant
eyes from Levin to the Tatar.
Levin ate the oysters indeed, though white bread and
cheese would have pleased him better. But he was
admiring Oblonsky. Even the Tatar, uncorking the bottle
and pouring the sparkling wine into the delicate glasses,
glanced at Stepan Arkadyevitch, and settled his white
cravat with a perceptible smile of satisfaction.
‘You don’t care much for oysters, do you?’ said Stepan
Arkadyevitch, emptying his wine glass, ‘or you’re worried
about something. Eh?’
He wanted Levin to be in good spirits. But it was not
that Levin was not in good spirits; he was ill at ease. With
what he had in his soul, he felt sore and uncomfortable in
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the restaurant, in the midst of private rooms where men
were dining with ladies, in all this fuss and bustle; the
surroundings of bronzes, looking glasses, gas, and
waiters—all of it was offensive to him. He was afraid of
sullying what his soul was brimful of.
‘I? Yes, I am; but besides, all this bothers me,’ he said.
‘You can’t conceive how queer it all seems to a country
person like me, as queer as that gentleman’s nails I saw at
your place..’
‘Yes, I saw how much interested you were in poor
Grinevitch’s nails,’ said Stepan Arkadyevitch, laughing.
‘It’s too much for me,’ responded Levin. ‘Do try, now,
and put yourself in my place, take the point of view of a
country person. We in the country try to bring our hands
into such a state as will be most convenient for working
with. So we cut our nails; sometimes we turn up our
sleeves. And here people purposely let their nails grow as
long as they will, and link on small saucers by way of
studs, so that they can do nothing with their hands.’
Stepan Arkadyevitch smiled gaily.
‘Oh, yes, that’s just a sign that he has no need to do
coarse work. His work is with the mind..’
‘Maybe. But still it’s queer to me, just as at this
moment it seems queer to me that we country folks try to
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get our meals over as soon as we can, so as to be ready for
our work, while here are we trying to drag out our meal
as long as possible, and with that object eating oysters..’
‘Why, of course,’ objected Stepan Arkadyevitch. ‘But
that’s just the aim of civilization—to make everything a
source of enjoyment.’
‘Well, if that’s its aim, I’d rather be a savage.’
‘And so you are a savage. All you Levins are savages.’
Levin sighed. He remembered his brother Nikolay, and
felt ashamed and sore, and he scowled; but Oblonsky
began speaking of a subject which at once drew his
attention.
‘Oh, I say, are you going tonight to our people, the
Shtcherbatskys’, I mean?’ he said, his eyes sparkling
significantly as he pushed away the empty rough shells,
and drew the cheese towards him.
‘Yes, I shall certainly go,’ replied Levin; ‘though I
fancied the princess was not very warm in her invitation.’
‘What nonsense! That’s her manner.... Come, boy, the
soup!.... That’s her manner—grande dame,’ said Stepan
Arkadyevitch. ‘I’m coming, too, but I have to go to the
Countess Bonina’s rehearsal. Come, isn’t it true that
you’re a savage? How do you explain the sudden way in
which you vanished from Moscow? The Shtcherbatskys
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were continually asking me about you, as though I ought
to know. The only thing I know is that you always do
what no one else does.’
‘Yes,’ said Levin, slowly and with emotion, ‘you’re
right. I am a savage. Only, my savageness is not in having
gone away, but in coming now. Now I have come..’
‘Oh, what a lucky fellow you are!’ broke in Stepan
Arkadyevitch, looking into Levin’s eyes.
‘Why?’
‘I know a gallant steed by tokens sure, And by his eyes
I know a youth in love,’ declaimed Stepan Arkadyevitch.
‘Everything is before you.’
‘Why, is it over for you already?’
‘No; not over exactly, but the future is yours, and the
present is mine, and the present—well, it’s not all that it
might be.’
‘How so?’
‘Oh, things go wrong. But I don’t want to talk of
myself, and besides I can’t explain it all,’ said Stepan
Arkadyevitch. ‘Well, why have you come to Moscow,
then?.... Hi! take away!’ he called to the Tatar.
‘You guess?’ responded Levin, his eyes like deep wells
of light fixed on Stepan Arkadyevitch.
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‘I guess, but I can’t be the first to talk about it. You can
see by that whether I guess right or wrong,’ said Stepan
Arkadyevitch, gazing at Levin with a subtle smile.
‘Well, and what have you to say to me?’ said Levin in a
quivering voice, feeling that all the muscles of his face
were quivering too. ‘How do you look at the question?’
Stepan Arkadyevitch slowly emptied his glass of
Chablis, never taking his eyes off Levin.
‘I?’ said Stepan Arkadyevitch, ‘there’s nothing I desire
so much as that—nothing! It would be the best thing that
could be.’
‘But you’re not making a mistake? You know what
we’re speaking of?’ said Levin, piercing him with his eyes.
‘You think it’s possible?’
‘I think it’s possible. Why not possible?’
‘No! do you really think it’s possible? No, tell me all
you think! Oh, but if...if refusal’s in store for me!... Indeed
I feel sure..’
‘Why should you think that?’ said Stepan Arkadyevitch,
smiling at his excitement.
‘It seems so to me sometimes. That will be awful for
me, and for her too.’
‘Oh, well, anyway there’s nothing awful in it for a girl.
Every girl’s proud of an offer.’
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‘Yes, every girl, but not she.’
Stepan Arkadyevitch smiled. He so well knew that
feeling of Levin’s, that for him all the girls in the world
were divided into two classes: one class—all the girls in the
world except her, and those girls with all sorts of human
weaknesses, and very ordinary girls: the other class—she
alone, having no weaknesses of any sort and higher than
all humanity.
‘Stay, take some sauce,’ he said, holding back Levin’s
hand as it pushed away the sauce.
Levin obediently helped himself to sauce, but would
not let Stepan Arkadyevitch go on with his dinner.
‘No, stop a minute, stop a minute,’ he said. ‘You must
understand that it’s a question of life and death for me. I
have never spoken to any one of this. And there’s no one
I could speak of it to, except you. You know we’re utterly
unlike each other, different tastes and views and
everything; but I know you’re fond of me and understand
me, and that’s why I like you awfully. But for God’s sake,
be quite straightforward with me.’
‘I tell you what I think,’ said Stepan Arkadyevitch,
smiling. ‘But I’ll say more: my wife is a wonderful
woman...’ Stepan Arkadyevitch sighed, remembering his
position with his wife, and, after a moment’s silence,
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resumed—‘She has a gift of foreseeing things. She sees
right through people; but that’s not all; she knows what
will come to pass, especially in the way of marriages. She
foretold, for instance, that Princess Shahovskaya would
marry Brenteln. No one would believe it, but it came to
pass. And she’s on your side.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘It’s not only that she likes you—she says that Kitty is
certain to be your wife.’
At these words Levin’s face suddenly lighted up with a
smile, a smile not far from tears of emotion.
‘She says that!’ cried Levin. ‘I always said she was
exquisite, your wife. There, that’s enough, enough said
about it,’ he said, getting up from his seat.
‘All right, but do sit down.’
But Levin could not sit down. He walked with his firm
tread twice up and down the little cage of a room, blinked
his eyelids that his tears might not fall, and only then sat
down to the table.
‘You must understand,’ said he, ‘it’s not love. I’ve been
in love, but it’s not that. It’s not my feeling, but a sort of
force outside me has taken possession of me. I went away,
you see, because I made up my mind that it could never
be, you understand, as a happiness that does not come on
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earth; but I’ve struggled with myself, I see there’s no living
without it. And it must be settled.’
‘What did you go away for?’
‘Ah, stop a minute! Ah, the thoughts that come
crowding on one! The questions one must ask oneself!
Listen. You can’t imagine what you’ve done for me by
what you said. I’m so happy that I’ve become positively
hateful; I’ve forgotten everything. I heard today that my
brother Nikolay...you know, he’s here...I had even
forgotten him. It seems to me that he’s happy too. It’s a
sort of madness. But one thing’s awful.... Here, you’ve
been married, you know the feeling...it’s awful that we—
old—with a past... not of love, but of sins...are brought all
at once so near to a creature pure and innocent; it’s
loathsome, and that’s why one can’t help feeling oneself
unworthy.’
‘Oh, well, you’ve not many sins on your conscience.’
‘Alas! all the same,’ said Levin, ‘when with loathing I
go over my life, I shudder and curse and bitterly regret
it.... Yes.’
‘What would you have? The world’s made so,’ said
Stepan Arkadyevitch.
‘The one comfort is like that prayer, which I always
liked: ‘Forgive me not according to my unworthiness, but
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according to Thy lovingkindness.’ That’s the only way she
can forgive me.’
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Chapter 11
Levin emptied his glass, and they were silent for a
while.
‘There’s one other thing I ought to tell you. Do you
know Vronsky?’ Stepan Arkadyevitch asked Levin.
‘No, I don’t. Why do you ask?’
‘Give us another bottle,’ Stepan Arkadyevitch directed
the Tatar, who was filling up their glasses and fidgeting
round them just when he was not wanted.
‘Why you ought to know Vronsky is that he’s one of
your rivals.’
‘Who’s Vronsky?’ said Levin, and his face was suddenly
transformed from the look of childlike ecstasy which
Oblonsky had just been admiring to an angry and
unpleasant expression.
‘Vronsky is one of the sons of Count Kirill Ivanovitch
Vronsky, and one of the finest specimens of the gilded
youth of Petersburg. I made his acquaintance in Tver
when I was there on official business, and he came there
for the levy of recruits. Fearfully rich, handsome, great
connections, an aide-de-camp, and with all that a very
nice, good-natured fellow. But he’s more than simply a
Anna Karenina
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