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FIFTY-ONE

When the deacon had finished the prayer for the Imperial family, the priest holding a book turned to the bride and bridegroom.
‘Eternal God who joinest them that were separate,’ he read in his mild sing-song voice, ‘and hast ordained1 for them an indissoluble union in love; Thou who didst bless Isaac and Rebecca and hast kept Thy promise to their heirs, bless these Thy servants, Constantine and Catherine, and lead them on the path of righteousness! Most merciful God, Lover of Man, we praise Thee! Glory be to the Father, and to the Son, and to the Holy Ghost, now and hereafter and for ever and ever!’
‘Amen!’ from the invisible choir2, again floated through the air.
‘ “Joinest them that were separate” — what a depth of meaning is in those words, and how well they fit in with what I am feeling at this moment!’ thought Levin. ‘Does she feel the same?’
Looking round he met her eyes. From the expression in them he concluded that she understood them as he did; but this was not so. She understood hardly anything of the service and was not even listening to the words of the ceremony. She could neither listen nor understand, so deep was the one feeling that filled her soul and became ever stronger and stronger. It was a feeling of joy at the fruition of what had been for the last month and a half going on in her soul, of that which for those six weeks had gladdened and tortured her. On the day when, in the ball-room of the house in Arbat Street, she in her brown dress had gone up to him and silently plighted3 herself to him, on that day and in that hour a complete rupture4 seemed to have taken place within her soul between her former life and this other new and entirely5 unknown life — although in fact the old life still went on. Those six weeks had been the most blissful and at the same time the most trying of her life. The whole of her life, all her desires and hopes, were concentrated on this one man, still incomprehensible to her, to whom she was bound by a feeling — even more incomprehensible than the man himself — which now attracted and now repelled6 her. Meantime she went on living under the conditions of her old life and was horrified7 at herself: at her utter and unconquerable indifference8 to all her past, the things, habits, and people who had loved and still loved her, to her mother who was hurt by her indifference, to her dear, affectionate father whom she had previously9 loved more than anyone else on earth. At one moment she was horrified at this indifference, and the next moment rejoiced at that which caused her indifference. She could not think of or desire anything but life with this man; but, as that life had not yet begun, she could not even clearly picture it to herself. There was only anticipation10, fear, and joy at something new and unknown; and now at any moment the anticipation and uncertainty11, and the remorse12 at repudiating13 her former life, would all come to an end and something new would begin. This new life could not help being terrible in consequence of its incertitude14, but terrible or not it was already an accomplished15 fact within her soul six weeks ago, and was now only being sanctified.
Again turning to the reading-desk the priest with some difficulty picked up Kitty’s little ring, and asking Levin for his hand put the ring on the tip of his finger. ‘The servant of God, Constantine, is betrothed16 to the servant of God, Catherine,’ and having put a big ring on Kitty’s slender, rosy17 finger, pathetic in its weakness, the priest repeated the same words.
Several times the couple tried to guess what was expected of them, and blundered each time, the priest prompting them in whispers. When what was necessary had at length been complied with, he made the sign of the cross over them with the rings and again gave the larger one to Kitty and the little one to Levin, and again they blundered and passed the rings twice backwards18 and forwards without doing what was necessary.
Dolly, Chirikov, and Oblonsky came forward to help them. The result was some confusion, whispering, and smiles, but the expression of solemn emotion on the young couple’s faces did not change; on the contrary, while they fumbled19 with their hands they looked even more solemn and serious than before, and the smile with which Oblonsky whispered to them to put on their rings involuntarily died on his lips. He felt that any kind of smile would hurt their feelings.
‘Thou hast from the beginning created them male and female,’ read the priest when they had exchanged rings. ‘Through Thee the wife is knit to the husband for a helpmeet and to procreate the human race. Therefore, O God our Lord, who sentest down Thy truth upon Thy heritage, and gavest Thy promises to our fathers from generation to generation of Thy chosen people, look down upon Thy servant Constantine and Thy servant Catherine and strengthen them in their union with faith and concord20 in truth and love. . . .’
Levin felt more and more that his ideas of marriage and his dreams of how he would arrange his life had been but childishness, and that this was something he had never understood and was now still further from understanding, although it was happening to him; and in his breast a tremor21 rose higher and higher, and the unruly tears came to his eyes.

Chapter 5

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ALL Moscow, including both relatives and friends, had congregated in the church. During the marriage ceremony, in the brilliantly illuminated building, among the crowd of elegantly dressed women and girls and men in evening dress with white ties, or in uniform, conversation in the low tones required by propriety never flagged. It was usually started by the men, for the women were absorbed in watching every detail of the service, which always fascinates them.
In the circle nearest the bride were her two sisters, Dolly the elder and the calm and beautiful Princess Lvova, who had come from abroad.
‘Why is Marie in lilac? It’s almost as unsuitable at a wedding as black,’ remarked Mrs. Korsunskaya.
‘With her complexion it’s her only salvation,’ replied Princess Drubetskaya. ‘I wonder they are having the wedding in the evening, like tradespeople.’
‘It is more showy. I was married in the evening too,’ answered Mrs. Korsunskaya, and sighed as she remembered how sweet she had looked that day, how funnily enamoured her husband then was, and how different things were now.
‘They say that one who has been best man more than ten times never marries, and I wanted to be one for the tenth time to make myself safe, but was too late,’ Count Sinyavin was saying to the pretty young Princess Charskaya, who had designs on him.
She answered only with a smile. She was looking at Kitty and thinking of the time when she would be standing there beside Count Sinyavin, just as Kitty now stood, and how she would then remind him of his joke.
Young Shcherbatsky told the old Maid of Honour Nikolayeva that he intended to put the crown on Kitty’s chignon, to make her happy. [The best man and the groomsman hold heavy metal crowns above the heads of bride and bridegroom at a certain part of the service, and it is considered specially lucky if the crowns are actually put on.]
‘One ought not to wear a chignon,’ replied the Maid of Honour, who had long ago made up her mind that if the old widower for whom she was angling ever married her, their wedding should be of the simplest.
Koznyshev was talking to Dolly, jokingly assuring her that the custom of going away after the wedding was spreading because newly-married couples always felt rather uncomfortable.
‘Your brother has a right to feel proud. She is wonderfully sweet. You must be feeling envious.’
‘I am past all that, Darya Alexandrovna,’ he answered, and his face became unexpectedly sad and serious.
Oblonsky was telling his sister-in-law the pun he had made about ‘dissolving marriages’.
‘I must put her wreath straight,’ she replied, without listening.
‘What a pity she has grown so much plainer!’ remarked Countess Nordston to the Princess Lvova. ‘All the same he is not worth her little finger. Don’t you agree?’
‘No, I like him very much, and not just because he will be my brother-in-law,’ answered the Princess. ‘How well he behaves! And it is so difficult to behave well under these circumstances, and not be ridiculous — and he is not ridiculous or stiff and is evidently touched.’
‘I suppose you quite expected this!’
‘Almost. She always liked him.’
‘Well, let us see which of them will step first on the mat! [During part of the service the couple stand upon a small mat. The one who first steps upon it is supposed to become the predominant partner.] I have given Kitty my advice.’
‘It does not matter,’ replied Princess Lvova. ‘We are all submissive wives, it is in our nature.’
‘Well, I stepped on the mat before Vasily! And you, Dolly?’
Dolly, who was standing near, heard, but did not reply. Her eyes were moist and she could not have spoken without bursting into tears. She rejoiced at the sight of Kitty and Levin, but going back to the past she thought of her own wedding, kept glancing at the beaming Oblonsky, and, forgetting the present, recollected nothing but her own young and innocent love. She remembered not herself only, but all the women with whom she was intimate or acquainted: thought of them as they had been at that most solemn moment of their lives when, like Kitty, they had stood beneath the nuptial crown with love, hope and fear in their hearts, renouncing the past and entering upon the mystic future. Among the brides that came to her mind was her dear Anna, about whose impending divorce she had heard a while ago. She too had once stood with veiled head, pure and crowned with orange blossom. ‘And now? How strange!’ she murmured.
All the details of the ceremony were followed not only by the two sisters, the friends and relatives, but also by women onlookers who were quite strangers, and who — breathless with excitement and afraid of missing anything, even a single movement or expression of the bride’s or bridegroom’s face, and annoyed by the indifference of the men — did not answer and indeed often did not hear the latter when they jested or made irrelevant remarks.
‘Why is her face so tear-stained? Is she being married against her will?’
‘Against her will, indeed, to such a fine fellow! Is he a Prince?’
‘And is that her sister in white satin? . . . Now hear how the deacon will roar, “Wives, obey your husbands”!’
‘Is it the Chudovsky Choir?’
‘No, the Synod’s.’
‘I asked the footman. It seems he will take her to his estate straight off.’
‘He’s dreadfully rich, they say. That’s why they have given her to him.’
‘Oh no, they are a very nice couple.’
‘There now, Mary Vasilyevna! You were maintaining that crinolines were being worn fuller at the back! Just look at that one in the puce dress — an ambassador’s wife, they say. See how it’s draped: this way, and back again.’
‘What a darling the bride is, like a lamb decked for the slaughter! But whatever you may say, one does feel sorry for a girl.’
So chattered the crowd of women who had managed to get inside the church.

Chapter 6

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WHEN the first part of the ceremony was over, a verger spread out a piece of pink silk cloth in front of the lectern. The choir began singing a psalm to some elaborate and complicated melody in which the bass and tenor continually repeated each other; and the priest, turning round, motioned the couple to the piece of pink silk. Often as they had heard the saying that the one who stepped first on the mat would be head of the household, neither Levin nor Kitty could think of that as they took those few steps, nor did they hear the loud remarks and disputes of those who maintained that he was first, and of others who said that they did it both together.
After the usual questions of whether they wished to be married and whether they had promised themselves to others, and their answers, which sounded strange to themselves, the second part of the service began. Kitty listened to the words of the prayer, trying to comprehend their meaning but unable to do so. Triumph and radiant joy filled her heart more and more as the ceremony proceeded, and made it impossible for her to be attentive.
They prayed: ‘That they may live in chastity for the good of the fruits of the womb, and find joy in their sons and daughters.’ It was declared that God had created woman from Adam’s rib, and that ‘For this cause shall a man leave his father and mother and cleave unto his wife, and they twain shall be one flesh’; and that ‘This is a great mystery.’ They prayed that God should make them fruitful and bless them as he blessed Isaac and Rebecca, Joseph, Moses and Zipporah, and that they should see their children’s children. ‘It is all very beautiful,’ thought Kitty as she heard these words, ‘and could not be different’. And a smile of joy, which involuntarily communicated itself to all who regarded her, shone on her radiant face.
‘Put it quite on!’ came the words of advice when the priest had put crowns on their heads and Shcherbatsky, his hand in its three-buttoned glove trembling, held the crown high above Kitty’s head.
‘Put it on,’ she whispered, smiling.
Levin glanced round at her, was struck by the joyous radiance of her face, and was involuntarily infected by her feeling. He felt bright and joyous as she did.
With light hearts they heard the Epistle read and the roll of the senior deacon’s voice in the last verse, for which the outsiders present had been waiting impatiently. With light hearts they drank the warm wine and water from the shallow cup, and their spirits rose still higher when the priest, throwing back his vestments, took their hands in his and led them round the lectern while a bass voice sang, Rejoice, O Isaiah! Young Shcherbatsky and Chirikov, who were supporting the crowns and getting entangled in the bride’s train, smiled too and were pleased without knowing why, when they chanced to lag behind or jostle the young couple if the priest happened to stop. The spark of joy that was glowing in Kitty’s heart seemed to have spread to every one in the church. Levin fancied that the priest and deacon wanted to smile just as he did.
Having lifted the crowns from their heads, the priest read the last prayer and congratulated the married couple. Levin glanced at Kitty and thought he had never seen her like that before, so enchanting with the new light of happiness irradiating her face. He wished to speak to her, but did not know whether it was all over yet. The priest helped him out of the difficulty, saying softly, with a smile on his kindly mouth, ‘Kiss your wife; and you, kiss your husband!’ He took the candles from their hands.
Levin kissed her carefully on her smiling lips, offered his arm, and with a feeling of strange closeness led her out of the church. He could not believe it was all true, and only realized it when their surprised and timid glances met and he felt that they were already one.
After supper that same night the young couple left for the country.

Chapter 7

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VRONSKY and Anna had already been travelling together in Europe for three months. They had visited Venice, Rome, and Naples, and had only just reached a small Italian town where they meant to make a longer stay.
A handsome head-waiter, his thick hair greased with pomatum and parted from the nape upward, dressed in a swallowtail coat, with a wide lawn shirt-front and a bundle of charms dangling on his rotund stomach, with his hands in his pockets, his eyes screwed up contemptuously, was answering a bystander’s questions in a severe tone. Hearing steps ascending the stairs at the other side of the entrance, the waiter turned and recognized the Russian Count who occupied the best rooms in the hotel. He respectfully took his hands out of his pockets, bowed, and said that the courier had been, and that the business of renting the palazzo was settled. The steward was ready to sign the contract.
‘Ah, I am very glad,’ said Vronsky. ‘And is the lady in?’
‘The lady has been for a walk, but has now returned,’ replied the waiter.
Vronsky took off his soft, broad-brimmed hat and wiped his perspiring forehead and his hair, which he had allowed to grow half-way down his ears and wore brushed back so as to hide his bald patch. After an absent-minded glance at the man who was still standing there watching him, he was about to go in.
‘This gentleman is a Russian and was asking about you,’ said the head-waiter.
With a mixture of vexation at the impossibility of evading his acquaintances anywhere and of desire to find something to distract the monotony of his life, Vronsky looked round again at the man, who had first moved away and then halted; and at the same moment the eyes of both brightened.
‘Golenishchev!’
‘Vronsky!’
It was really Golenishchev, his fellow-student in the Corps des Pages. In the Corps Golenishchev had been a Liberal, had left the Corps a civilian, and had never served. On leaving the Corps the two friends had separated and had met but once since then.
On that occasion Vronsky found that Golenishchev had chosen some high-flown Liberal activity and therefore felt he must despise Vronsky’s profession and activities. Consequently Vronsky had then treated him with the cold, proud aloofness of which he was master, which meant: ‘You may like or dislike my way of life. It is a matter of absolute indifference to me, but if you wish to know me you must respect me.’ And Golenishchev had remained contemptuously indifferent to Vronsky’s attitude, so that that meeting ought to have separated them still further. Yet now they brightened up and exclaimed with pleasure at recognizing one another. Vronsky would never have thought he could be so pleased to see Golenishchev, but probably he was himself unaware how bored he was. He forgot the unpleasant impression left by their last encounter, and with an open and joyful countenance held out his hand to his old schoolfellow. A similar expression of pleasure replaced the former anxious look on Golenishchev’s face.
‘How pleased I am to see you!’ said Vronsky, a friendly smile disclosing his fine white teeth.
‘I heard the name of Vronsky but I did not know which Vronsky. I am very, very pleased.’
‘Come in! Well, and what are you doing?’
‘Oh, I have been here over a year. I am working.’
‘Ah!’ said Vronsky in an interested tone. ‘Well, come in.’
And according to the usual way with Russians, instead of saying what he wanted to hide from the servants in Russian, he began speaking French.
‘You know Madame Karenina? We are travelling together. I am now going to her,’ he said in French, attentively watching Golenishchev’s expression.
‘Ah? I did not know,’ Golenishchev replied in a tone of indifference, though he was quite aware of it. ‘Been here long?’ he added.
‘I? . . . Three days,’ answered Vronsky, still attentively scrutinizing his friend’s face. ‘Yes, he is a decent fellow and looks at the matter in the right way,’ said Vronsky to himself, understanding the meaning of the other’s look and the change of subject. ‘I can introduce him to Anna, as he sees the matter rightly.’
During the three months he had spent abroad with Anna, Vronsky when coming across new people had always asked himself how the new person would be likely to regard his relations with Anna, and in most cases he had found that the men he met understood it in the ‘right’ way. But had he, and those who understood the matter in the ‘right’ way, been asked what this understanding amounted to, they would have been much puzzled how to reply.
At bottom, those who in Vronsky’s opinion understood it the ‘right’ way did not understand it in any special way, but behaved in general as well-bred persons do with regard to all the complicated and unanswerable problems which surround life on every side: they conducted themselves properly, avoiding insinuations and inconvenient questions. They pretended to understand completely the significance and meaning of the situation, to countenance and even approve of it, but to consider it out of place and unnecessary to explain all this.
Vronsky at once guessed that Golenishchev was one of that sort, and was therefore doubly pleased to have met him; and Golenishchev behaved to Anna, when he had been introduced, as well as Vronsky could have wished. Evidently he avoided, without the least effort, everything in conversation that might have sounded awkward.
He had never met Anna before and was struck by her beauty, and still more by the simplicity with which she accepted her position. She blushed when Vronsky showed Golenishchev in, and the childlike flush that suffused her open and handsome face pleased him exceedingly. But what pleased him most was that at once, and apparently intentionally to prevent any possibility of misapprehension in the stranger’s mind, she called Vronsky simply Alexis, and said that they were about to move into a house of their own, called a palazzo, which they had just taken. This straightforward and simple attitude toward her own position pleased Golenishchev. Noticing Anna’s good-natured, bright, and energetic manner, he thought that, knowing both Karenin and Vronsky as he did, he quite understood her. He thought he understood what she herself was quite unable to understand: how, though she was the cause of her husband’s unhappiness and had abandoned him and her son, and lost her own good name, she could feel energetic, cheerful and happy.
‘It is mentioned in the guide-book,’ said Golenishchev, referring to the palazzo Vronsky was taking. ‘There is a fine Tintoretto there . . . one of his later period.’
‘I say, the weather is glorious: let us go and have another look at it,’ said Vronsky to Anna.
‘I should like to very much. I’ll just go and put on my hat. You say it’s hot?’ she asked, stopping at the door and looking inquiringly at Vronsky, while a bright flush again suffused her face.
From her look Vronsky understood that she did not yet know what attitude he wished to adopt toward Golenishchev, and was afraid she might not have behaved suitably.
He answered with a long and tender look. ‘No, not very hot,’ he said.
She thought she had understood him completely and above all that he was satisfied with her. She gave him a smile and went out with rapid steps.
The two friends looked at each other, and in both faces appeared an embarrassed expression, as if Golenishchev — who obviously admired her — tried but failed to hit on the right thing to say about her; and as if Vronsky both feared and wished that he should succeed.