Leo Tolstoy - Leo Tolstoy - The Complete Novels (The Greatest Novelists of All Time – Book 4)

“You are entering upon a time of life,” pursued the priest, “when you must choose your path and keep to it. Pray to God that He may in His mercy aid you and have mercy on you!” he concluded. “Our Lord and God, Jesus Christ, in the abundance and riches of His lovingkindness, forgives this child…” and, finishing the prayer of absolution, the priest blessed him and dismissed him.

On getting home that day, Levin had a delightful sense of relief at the awkward position being over and having been got through without his having to tell a lie. Apart from this, there remained a vague memory that what the kind, nice old fellow had said had not been at all so stupid as he had fancied at first, and that there was something in it that must be cleared up.

“Of course, not now,” thought Levin, “but some day later on.” Levin felt more than ever now that there was something not clear and not clean in his soul, and that, in regard to religion, he was in the same position which he perceived so clearly and disliked in others, and for which he blamed his friend Sviazhsky.

Levin spent that evening with his betrothed at Dolly’s, and was in very high spirits. To explain to Stepan Arkadyevitch the state of excitement in which he found himself, he said that he was happy like a dog being trained to jump through a hoop, who, having at last caught the idea, and done what was required of him, whines and wags its tail, and jumps up to the table and the windows in its delight.

Table of Contents

On the day of the wedding, according to the Russian custom (the princess and Darya Alexandrovna insisted on strictly keeping all the customs), Levin did not see his betrothed, and dined at his hotel with three bachelor friends, casually brought together at his rooms. These were Sergey Ivanovitch, Katavasov, a university friend, now professor of natural science, whom Levin had met in the street and insisted on taking home with him, and Tchirikov, his best man, a Moscow conciliation-board judge, Levin’s companion in his bear-hunts. The dinner was a very merry one: Sergey Ivanovitch was in his happiest mood, and was much amused by Katavasov’s originality. Katavasov, feeling his originality was appreciated and understood, made the most of it. Tchirikov always gave a lively and good-humored support to conversation of any sort.

“See, now,” said Katavasov, drawling his words from a habit acquired in the lecture-room, “what a capable fellow was our friend Konstantin Dmitrievitch. I’m not speaking of present company, for he’s absent. At the time he left the university he was fond of science, took an interest in humanity; now one-half of his abilities is devoted to deceiving himself, and the other to justifying the deceit.”

“A more determined enemy of matrimony than you I never saw,” said

Sergey Ivanovitch.

“Oh, no, I’m not an enemy of matrimony. I’m in favor of division of labor. People who can do nothing else ought to rear people while the rest work for their happiness and enlightenment. That’s how I look at it. To muddle up two trades is the error of the amateur; I’m not one of their number.”

“How happy I shall be when I hear that you’re in love!” said

Levin. “Please invite me to the wedding.”

“I’m in love now.”

“Yes, with a cuttlefish! You know,” Levin turned to his brother, “Mihail Semyonovitch is writing a work on the digestive organs of the…”

“Now, make a muddle of it! It doesn’t matter what about. And the fact is, I certainly do love cuttlefish.”

“But that’s no hindrance to your loving your wife.”

“The cuttlefish is no hindrance. The wife is the hindrance.”

“Why so?”

“Oh, you’ll see! You care about farming, hunting,—well, you’d better look out!”

“Arhip was here today; he said there were a lot of elks in

Prudno, and two bears,” said Tchirikov.

“Well, you must go and get them without me.”

“Ah, that’s the truth,” said Sergey Ivanovitch. “And you may say good-bye to bear-hunting for the future—your wife won’t allow it!”

Levin smiled. The picture of his wife not letting him go was so pleasant that he was ready to renounce the delights of looking upon bears forever.

“Still, it’s a pity they should get those two bears without you. Do you remember last time at Hapilovo? That was a delightful hunt!” said Tchirikov.

Levin had not the heart to disillusion him of the notion that there could be something delightful apart from her, and so said nothing.

“There’s some sense in this custom of saying good-bye to bachelor life,” said Sergey Ivanovitch. “However happy you may be, you must regret your freedom.”

“And confess there is a feeling that you want to jump out of the window, like Gogol’s bridegroom?”

“Of course there is, but it isn’t confessed,” said Katavasov, and he broke into loud laughter.

“Oh, well, the window’s open. Let’s start off this instant to

Tver! There’s a big she-bear; one can go right up to the lair.

Seriously, let’s go by the five o’clock! And here let them do

what they like,” said Tchirikov, smiling.

“Well, now, on my honor,” said Levin, smiling, “I can’t find in my heart that feeling of regret for my freedom.”

“Yes, there’s such a chaos in your heart just now that you can’t find anything there,” said Katavasov. “Wait a bit, when you set it to rights a little, you’ll find it!”

“No; if so, I should have felt a little, apart from my feeling” (he could not say love before them) “and happiness, a certain regret at losing my freedom…. On the contrary, I am glad at the very loss of my freedom.”

“Awful! It’s a hopeless case!” said Katavasov. “Well, let’s drink to his recovery, or wish that a hundredth part of his dreams may be realized—and that would be happiness such as never has been seen on earth!”

Soon after dinner the guests went away to be in time to be dressed for the wedding.

When he was left alone, and recalled the conversation of these bachelor friends, Levin asked himself: had he in his heart that regret for his freedom of which they had spoken? He smiled at the question. “Freedom! What is freedom for? Happiness is only in loving and wishing her wishes, thinking her thoughts, that is to say, not freedom at all—that’s happiness!”

“But do I know her ideas, her wishes, her feelings?” some voice suddenly whispered to him. The smile died away from his face, and he grew thoughtful. And suddenly a strange feeling came upon him. There came over him a dread and doubt—doubt of everything.

“What if she does not love me? What if she’s marrying me simply to be married? What if she doesn’t see herself what she’s doing?” he asked himself. “She may come to her senses, and only when she is being married realize that she does not and cannot love me.” And strange, most evil thoughts of her began to come to him. He was jealous of Vronsky, as he had been a year ago, as though the evening he had seen her with Vronsky had been yesterday. He suspected she had not told him everything.

He jumped up quickly. “No, this can’t go on!” he said to himself in despair. “I’ll go to her; I’ll ask her; I’ll say for the last time: we are free, and hadn’t we better stay so? Anything’s better than endless misery, disgrace, unfaithfulness!” With despair in his heart and bitter anger against all men, against himself, against her, he went out of the hotel and drove to her house.

He found her in one of the back rooms. She was sitting on a chest and making some arrangements with her maid, sorting over heaps of dresses of different colors, spread on the backs of chairs and on the floor.