FIVE

‘ “Fiery steeds by” something “brands
I can always recognize;
Youths in love at once I know,
By the look that lights their eyes!” ’
declaimed Oblonsky. ‘You have everything before you!’
‘And you — have you everything behind you?’
‘No, not behind me, but you have the future and I have the present; and even that only half-and-half!’
‘Why?’
‘Oh, things are rather bad. . . . However, I don’t want to talk about myself, and besides it’s impossible to explain everything,’ said Oblonsky. ‘Well, and why have you come to Moscow? . . . Here, take this away!’ he shouted to the Tartar.
‘Don’t you guess?’ answered Levin, the light shining deep in his eyes as he gazed steadily1 at Oblonsky.
‘I do, but I can’t begin to speak about it, — by which you can judge whether my guess is right or wrong,’ said Oblonsky, looking at him with a subtle smile.
‘Well, and what do you say to it?’ asked Levin with a trembling voice, feeling that all the muscles of his face were quivering. ‘What do you think of it?’
Oblonsky slowly drank his glass of Chablis, his eyes fixed2 on Levin.
‘There is nothing I should like better,’ said he, ‘nothing! It is the best that could happen.’
‘But are you not making a mistake? Do you know what we are talking about?’ said Levin, peering into his interlocutor’s face. ‘You think it possible?’
‘I think so. Why shouldn’t it be?’
‘No, do you really think it is possible? No, you must tell me all you really think! And suppose . . . suppose a refusal is in store for me? . . . I am even certain . . .’
‘Why do you think so?’ said Oblonsky, smiling at Levin’s excitement.
‘Well, sometimes it seems so to me. You know, that would he terrible both for her and for me.’
‘Oh no! In any case there’s nothing in it terrible for the girl. Every girl is proud of an offer.’
‘Yes, every girl, but not she.’
Oblonsky smiled. He understood that feeling of Levin’s so well, knew that for Levin all the girls in the world were divided into two classes: one class included all the girls in the world except her, and they had all the usual human failings and were very ordinary girls; while the other class — herself alone — had no weaknesses and was superior to all humanity.
‘Wait a bit: you must take some sauce,’ said Oblonsky, stopping Levin’s hand that was pushing away the sauceboat.
Levin obediently helped himself to sauce, but would not let Oblonsky eat.
‘No, wait, wait!’ he said. ‘Understand that for me it is a question of life and death. I have never spoken to anyone about it, and can speak to no one else about it. Now you and I are quite different in everything — in tastes and views and everything — but I know you like me and understand me, and so I am awfully3 fond of you. But for God’s sake be quite frank with me!’
‘I am telling you what I think,’ said Oblonsky smiling. ‘And I’ll tell you something more. My wife is a most wonderful woman . . .’ He sighed, remembering his relations with his wife; then after a minute’s pause he continued: ‘She has the gift of clairvoyance4. She sees people through and through! But more than that, she knows what is going to happen especially in regard to marriages. For instance, she predicted that the Shakovskaya girl would marry Brenteln. No one would believe it, but as it turned out she was right. And she is — on your side.’
‘How do you know?’
‘In this way — she not only likes you, but says that Kitty is sure to be your wife.’
At these words a sudden smile brightened Levin’s face, the kind of smile that is not far from tears of tenderness.
‘She says that?’ he cried. ‘I have always thought her a jewel, your wife! But enough — enough about it!’ and he got up.
‘All right, but sit down!’
But Levin could not sit still. He strode up and down the little cage of a room blinking to force back his tears, and only when he had succeeded did he sit down again.
‘Try and realize,’ he said, ‘that this is not love. I have been in love but this is not the same thing. It is not my feeling but some external power that has seized me. I went away, you know, because I had come to the conclusion that it was impossible — you understand? Because such happiness does not exist on earth. But I have struggled with myself and found that without that there’s no life for me. And it must be decided5 . . .’
‘Then why did you go away?’
‘Wait a moment! Oh, what a crowd of ideas! How many things I have to ask! Listen. You can’t imagine what you have done for me by saying what you did! I am so happy that I’m acting6 meanly. I’ve forgotten everything. I heard to-day about my brother Nicholas . . . he’s here, you know . . . and I forgot all about him. It seems to me as if he too were happy. It is like madness! But there is one awful thing about it. You who are married, know the feeling . . . it is awful that we — who are comparatively old and have pasts . . . not of love but of sin . . . suddenly we come into close intimacy7 with a pure innocent being! That is disgusting, and therefore one can’t help feeling oneself unworthy.’
‘Well, there haven’t been many sins in your past!’
‘Ah, but all the same,’ said Levin, ‘looking back at my life, I tremble and curse and bitterly regret. . . . Yes!’
‘What’s to be done? That’s the way the world is made,’ said Oblonsky.
‘My one consolation8 is that prayer that I like so much: “Not according to my deserts but according to Thy mercy!” And she too can only forgive me that way.’

Chapter 11

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LEVIN emptied his glass and they were silent for a while.
‘There is one thing more that I must tell you,’ began Oblonsky. ‘You know Vronsky?’
‘No, I don’t. Why do you ask?’
‘Another bottle!’ said Oblonsky, turning to the Tartar, who was filling their glasses and hovering round them just when he was not wanted.
‘The reason you ought to know Vronsky is this: he is one of your rivals.’
‘What is he?’ asked Levin, the expression of childlike rapture which Oblonsky had been admiring suddenly changing into an angry and unpleasant one.
‘Vronsky is one of Count Ivanovich Vronsky’s sons, and a very fine sample of the gilded youth of Petersburg. I met him in Tver when I was in the Service there and he came on conscription duty. Awfully rich, handsome, with influential connections, an aide-de-camp to the Emperor, and at the same time very good-natured — a first-rate fellow. And he’s even more than a first-rate fellow. As I have got to know him now, he turns out to be both educated and very clever — a man who will go far.’
Levin frowned and was silent.
‘Well, so he came here soon after you left, and as far as I can make out is head over ears in love with Kitty; and you understand that her mother . . .’
‘Pardon me, but I understand nothing,’ said Levin, dismally knitting his brows. And at once he thought of his brother Nicholas and how mean he was to forget him.
‘You just wait a bit, wait!’ said Oblonsky, smiling and touching Levin’s arm. ‘I have told you what I know, and I repeat that, as far as anyone can judge in so delicate and subtle a matter, I believe the chances are all on your side.’
Levin leant back in his chair. His face was pale.
‘But I should advise you to settle the question as soon as possible,’ Oblonsky continued, filling Levin’s glass.
‘No, thanks! I can’t drink any more,’ said Levin pushing his glass aside, ‘or I shall be tipsy. . . . Well, and how are you getting on?’ he continued, evidently wishing to change the subject.
‘One word more! In any case, I advise you to decide the question quickly, but I shouldn’t speak to-day,’ said Oblonsky. ‘Go to-morrow morning and propose in the classic manner, and may heaven bless you!’
‘You have so often promised to come and shoot with me — why not come this spring?’ said Levin.
He now repented with his whole heart of having begun this conversation with Oblonsky. His personal feelings had been desecrated by the mention of some Petersburg officer as his rival, and by Oblonsky’s conjectures and advice.
Oblonsky smiled. He understood what was going on in Levin’s soul.
‘I’ll come some day,’ he said. ‘Ah, old chap, women are the pivot on which everything turns! Things are in a bad way with me too, very bad and all on account of women. Tell me quite frankly . . .’
He took out a cigar, and with one hand on his glass he continued:
‘Give me some advice.’
‘Why? What is the matter?’
‘Well, it’s this. Supposing you were married and loved your wife, but had been fascinated by another woman . . .’
‘Excuse me, but really I . . . it’s quite incomprehensible to me. It’s as if . . . just as incomprehensible as if I, after eating my fill here, went into a baker’s shop and stole a roll.’
Oblonsky’s eyes glittered more than usual.
‘Why not? Rolls sometimes smell so that one can’t resist them!’
‘Himmlisch ist’s, wenn ich bezwungen
Meine irdische Begier;
Aber doch wenn’s nicht gelungen
Hatt’ ich auch recht hübsch Plaisir!’
[‘It is heavenly when I have mastered
My earthly desires;
But even when I have not succeeded,
I have also had right good pleasure!’]
Oblonsky repeated these lines with a subtle smile and Levin himself could not help smiling.
‘No, but joking apart,’ continued Oblonsky, ‘just consider. A woman, a dear, gentle, affectionate creature, poor and lonely, sacrifices everything. Now when the thing is done . . . just consider, should one forsake her? Granted that one ought to part with her so as not to destroy one’s family life, but oughtn’t one to pity her and provide for her and make things easier?’
‘As to that, you must pardon me. You know that for me there are two kinds of women . . . or rather, no! There are women, and there are . . . I have never seen any charming fallen creatures, and never shall see any; and people like that painted Frenchwoman with her curls out there by the counter, are an abomination to me, and all these fallen ones are like her.’
‘And the one in the Gospels?’
‘Oh, don’t! Christ would never have spoken those words, had he known how they would be misused! They are the only words in the Gospels that seem to be remembered. However, I am not saying what I think, but what I feel. I have a horror of fallen women. You are repelled by spiders and I by those creatures. Probably you never studied spiders and know nothing of their morals; and it’s the same in my case!’
‘It’s all very well for you to talk like that — it’s like that gentleman in Dickens, who with his left hand threw all difficult questions over his right shoulder. But denying a fact is no answer. What am I to do? Tell me, what am I to do? My wife is getting old, and I am full of vitality. A man hardly has time to turn round, before he feels that he can no longer love his wife in that way, whatever his regard for her may be. And then all of a sudden love crosses your path, and you’re lost, lost!’ said Oblonsky with despair.
Levin smiled.
‘Yes, I am lost,’ continued Oblonsky. ‘But what am I to do?’
‘Don’t steal rolls.’
Oblonsky burst out laughing.
‘Oh, you moralist! But just consider, here are two women: one insists only on her rights, and her rights are your love, which you cannot give her; and the other sacrifices herself and demands nothing. What are you to do? How are you to act? It is a terrible tragedy.’
‘If you want me to say what I think of it, I can only tell you that I don’t believe in the tragedy. And the reason is this: I think love, both kinds of love, which you remember Plato defines in his “Symposium” — both kinds of love serve as a touchstone for men. Some men understand only the one, some only the other. Those who understand only the non-platonic love need not speak of tragedy. For such love there can be no tragedy. “Thank you kindly for the pleasure, goodbye,” and that’s the whole tragedy. And for the platonic love there can be no tragedy either, because there everything is clear and pure, because . . .’ Here Levin recollecting his own sins and the inner struggle he had lived through added unexpectedly, ‘However, maybe you are right. It may very well be. But I don’t know, I really don’t know.’
‘Well, you see you are very consistent,’ said Oblonsky. ‘It is both a virtue and a fault in you. You have a consistent character yourself and you wish all the facts of life to be consistent, but they never are. For instance you despise public service because you want work always to correspond to its aims, and that never happens. You also want the activity of each separate man to have an aim, and love and family life always to coincide — and that doesn’t happen either. All the variety, charm and beauty of life are made up of light and shade.’
Levin sighed and did not answer. He was thinking of his own affairs and not listening to Oblonsky.
And suddenly both felt that though they were friends, and had dined and drunk wine together which should have drawn them yet closer, yet each was thinking only of his own affairs and was not concerned with the other.
Oblonsky had more than once experienced this kind of acute estrangement instead of union following a dinner with a friend, and knew what to do in such a case.
‘The bill!’ he shouted and went out into the dining-hall, where he immediately saw an aide-de-camp of his acquaintance, and entered into conversation with him about an actress and her protector. And immediately in conversation with the aide-de-camp Oblonsky felt relief and rest after the talk with Levin, who always demanded of him too great a mental and spiritual strain.
When the Tartar returned with a bill for twenty-six roubles odd, Levin quite unconcernedly paid his share, which with the tip came to fourteen roubles, a sum that usually would have horrified his rustic conscience, and went home to dress and go on to the Shcherbatskys’ where his fate was to be decided.

Chapter 12

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PRINCESS KITTY SHCHERBATSKAYA was eighteen, and this was her first season. Her success in Society was greater than that of her two elder sisters, and greater even than her mother had expected. Not only were nearly all the youths that danced at the Moscow balls in love with Kitty, but two serious suitors presented themselves for her that very first winter: Levin and, immediately after his departure, Count Vronsky.
Levin’s arrival at the beginning of the winter, his frequent visits and evident love for Kitty gave rise to her parents’ first serious deliberation as to her future, and to disputes between them. The Prince took Levin’s part and said he desired nothing better for Kitty. The Princess with a woman’s way of talking round the question said that Kitty was too young, that Levin had not shown that his intentions were serious, that Kitty was not in love with him, and so on; but she did not say the most important things, namely that she expected a better match for her daughter, that she did not like Levin and did not understand him. When he suddenly left, the Princess was pleased and triumphantly said to her husband, ‘You see, I was right!’ When Vronsky appeared she was still more pleased and was strengthened in her opinion that Kitty ought to make not only a good but a brilliant match.
In the mother’s eyes there was no comparison between Levin and Vronsky. She did not like Levin’s strange and harsh criticisms, his awkward manner in Society which she attributed to pride, and what she considered his strange way of life in the country, occupied with cattle and peasants; in particular she did not like the fact that when he was in love with her daughter he came to the house for six weeks as if waiting and looking out for something, afraid of doing them too great an honour by making an offer of marriage, and that he did not understand that, if he visited at a house where there was a marriageable girl, he ought to declare his intentions. And then suddenly he left without proposing!
‘It’s a good thing he is so unattractive, and that Kitty has not fallen in love with him,’ thought her mother.
Vronsky satisfied all the mother’s desires: he was very rich, clever, distinguished, with a brilliant military career before him, a position at Court, and altogether was an enchanting man. Nothing better could be desired.
Vronsky was openly attentive to Kitty when they met at balls, danced with her, and came to the house, so there could be no doubt as to the seriousness of his intentions. But in spite of this the mother was in a dreadful state of anxiety and agitation all that winter.
When the Princess herself had married, more than thirty years before, the match had been arranged by an aunt. Her fiancé about whom everything was known beforehand came, saw his intended bride, and was seen by her people; then the matchmaking aunt learnt what was thought on each side, and passed on the information. All was satisfactory. Afterwards at an appointed time and place the expected proposal was made to, and accepted by, her parents. Everything was done very easily and simply. At least so it seemed to the Princess. But in her daughters’ case she experienced how far from easy and simple the apparently easy business of marrying off a daughter really was. What anxiety she had to suffer, how many questions to consider over and over again, how much money to spend, how many encounters with her husband to go through, when her two elder daughters Darya and Nataly were married! Now that her youngest daughter had come out she was living through the same fears and doubts, and having even worse disputes with her husband than on her elder daughters’ account. Like all fathers, the old Prince was extremely punctilious where his daughters’ purity and honour were concerned; he was unreasonably jealous especially about Kitty, his favourite, and at every step reproached the Princess with compromising her daughter. The Princess had grown used to this in respect to her elder daughters, but now she felt that her husband’s punctiliousness had more justification. She could see that lately social customs had changed very much and a mother’s duties had become still more difficult. She knew that girls of Kitty’s age formed societies of some sort, went to courses of lectures, made friends freely with men, and drove alone through the streets; many no longer curtsied, and above all every one of them was firmly convinced that the choice of a husband was her own and not her parents’ business. ‘Nowadays they don’t give us away in marriage as they used to!’ said these young girls, and even the old people said the same. But how marriages are now arranged the Princess could not find out from anyone.
The French way, of parents deciding a daughter’s fate, was not accepted, and was even condemned. The English way, of giving a girl perfect freedom, was also rejected, and would have been impossible in Russian Society. The Russian way, of employing a professional match-maker, was considered monstrous, and was laughed at by everybody, including the Princess herself. But how a girl was to get married, or how a mother was to get a daughter given in marriage, no one knew. Every one with whom the Princess discussed the subject said the same thing: ‘Well, you know, in our days it is time to give up obsolete customs. After all it’s the young people who marry and not their parents, therefore they must be left to arrange matters as they think best.’ It was all very well for people who had no daughters to talk like that, but the Princess knew that intimacy might be followed by love and that her daughter might fall in love with some one who had no intention of marrying or was not fit to be her husband. And whatever people might say about the time having come when young people must arrange their future for themselves, she could not believe it any more than she could believe that loaded pistols could ever be the best toys for five-year-old children. That is why the Princess was more anxious about Kitty than she had been about her elder daughters.