Kabanata Kabanata 12 · 第12章

The young Princess Kitty Shtcherbatskaya was eighteen. It was the first

winter that she had been out in the world. Her success in society had

been greater than that of either of her elder sisters, and greater even

than her mother had anticipated. To say nothing of the young men who

danced at the Moscow balls being almost all in love with Kitty, two

serious suitors had already this first winter made their appearance:

Levin, and immediately after his departure, Count Vronsky.

Levin’s appearance at the beginning of the winter, his frequent visits,

and evident love for Kitty, had led to the first serious conversations

between Kitty’s parents as to her future, and to disputes between them.

The prince was on Levin’s side; he said he wished for nothing better

for Kitty. The princess for her part, going round the question in the

manner peculiar to women, maintained that Kitty was too young, that

Levin had done nothing to prove that he had serious intentions, that

Kitty felt no great attraction to him, and other side issues; but she

did not state the principal point, which was that she looked for a

better match for her daughter, and that Levin was not to her liking,

and she did not understand him. When Levin had abruptly departed, the

princess was delighted, and said to her husband triumphantly: “You see

I was right.” When Vronsky appeared on the scene, she was still more

delighted, confirmed in her opinion that Kitty was to make not simply a

good, but a brilliant match.

In the mother’s eyes there could be no comparison between Vronsky and

Levin. She disliked in Levin his strange and uncompromising opinions

and his shyness in society, founded, as she supposed, on his pride and

his queer sort of life, as she considered it, absorbed in cattle and

peasants. She did not very much like it that he, who was in love with

her daughter, had kept coming to the house for six weeks, as though he

were waiting for something, inspecting, as though he were afraid he

might be doing them too great an honor by making an offer, and did not

realize that a man, who continually visits at a house where there is a

young unmarried girl, is bound to make his intentions clear. And

suddenly, without doing so, he disappeared. “It’s as well he’s not

attractive enough for Kitty to have fallen in love with him,” thought

the mother.

Vronsky satisfied all the mother’s desires. Very wealthy, clever, of

aristocratic family, on the highroad to a brilliant career in the army

and at court, and a fascinating man. Nothing better could be wished

for.

Vronsky openly flirted with Kitty at balls, danced with her, and came

continually to the house, consequently there could be no doubt of the

seriousness of his intentions. But, in spite of that, the mother had

spent the whole of that winter in a state of terrible anxiety and

agitation.

Princess Shtcherbatskaya had herself been married thirty years ago, her

aunt arranging the match. Her husband, about whom everything was well

known beforehand, had come, looked at his future bride, and been looked

at. The matchmaking aunt had ascertained and communicated their mutual

impression. That impression had been favorable. Afterwards, on a day

fixed beforehand, the expected offer was made to her parents, and

accepted. All had passed very simply and easily. So it seemed, at

least, to the princess. But over her own daughters she had felt how far

from simple and easy is the business, apparently so commonplace, of

marrying off one’s daughters. The panics that had been lived through,

the thoughts that had been brooded over, the money that had been

wasted, and the disputes with her husband over marrying the two elder

girls, Darya and Natalia! Now, since the youngest had come out, she was

going through the same terrors, the same doubts, and still more violent

quarrels with her husband than she had over the elder girls. The old

prince, like all fathers indeed, was exceedingly punctilious on the

score of the honor and reputation of his daughters. He was irrationally

jealous over his daughters, especially over Kitty, who was his

favorite. At every turn he had scenes with the princess for

compromising her daughter. The princess had grown accustomed to this

already with her other daughters, but now she felt that there was more

ground for the prince’s touchiness. She saw that of late years much was

changed in the manners of society, that a mother’s duties had become

still more difficult. She saw that girls of Kitty’s age formed some

sort of clubs, went to some sort of lectures, mixed freely in men’s

society; drove about the streets alone, many of them did not curtsey,

and, what was the most important thing, all the girls were firmly

convinced that to choose their husbands was their own affair, and not

their parents’. “Marriages aren’t made nowadays as they used to be,”

was thought and said by all these young girls, and even by their

elders. But how marriages were made now, the princess could not learn

from anyone. The French fashion—of the parents arranging their

children’s future—was not accepted; it was condemned. The English

fashion of the complete independence of girls was also not accepted,

and not possible in Russian society. The Russian fashion of matchmaking

by the offices of intermediate persons was for some reason considered

unseemly; it was ridiculed by everyone, and by the princess herself.

But how girls were to be married, and how parents were to marry them,

no one knew. Everyone with whom the princess had chanced to discuss the

matter said the same thing: “Mercy on us, it’s high time in our day to

cast off all that old-fashioned business. It’s the young people have to

marry; and not their parents; and so we ought to leave the young people

to arrange it as they choose.” It was very easy for anyone to say that

who had no daughters, but the princess realized that in the process of

getting to know each other, her daughter might fall in love, and fall

in love with someone who did not care to marry her or who was quite

unfit to be her husband. And, however much it was instilled into the

princess that in our times young people ought to arrange their lives

for themselves, she was unable to believe it, just as she would have

been unable to believe that, at any time whatever, the most suitable

playthings for children five years old ought to be loaded pistols. And

so the princess was more uneasy over Kitty than she had been over her

elder sisters.

Now she was afraid that Vronsky might confine himself to simply

flirting with her daughter. She saw that her daughter was in love with

him, but tried to comfort herself with the thought that he was an

honorable man, and would not do this. But at the same time she knew how

easy it is, with the freedom of manners of today, to turn a girl’s

head, and how lightly men generally regard such a crime. The week

before, Kitty had told her mother of a conversation she had with

Vronsky during a mazurka. This conversation had partly reassured the

princess; but perfectly at ease she could not be. Vronsky had told

Kitty that both he and his brother were so used to obeying their mother

that they never made up their minds to any important undertaking

without consulting her. “And just now, I am impatiently awaiting my

mother’s arrival from Petersburg, as peculiarly fortunate,” he told

her.

Kitty had repeated this without attaching any significance to the

words. But her mother saw them in a different light. She knew that the

old lady was expected from day to day, that she would be pleased at her

son’s choice, and she felt it strange that he should not make his offer

through fear of vexing his mother. However, she was so anxious for the

marriage itself, and still more for relief from her fears, that she

believed it was so. Bitter as it was for the princess to see the

unhappiness of her eldest daughter, Dolly, on the point of leaving her

husband, her anxiety over the decision of her youngest daughter’s fate

engrossed all her feelings. Today, with Levin’s reappearance, a fresh

source of anxiety arose. She was afraid that her daughter, who had at

one time, as she fancied, a feeling for Levin, might, from extreme

sense of honor, refuse Vronsky, and that Levin’s arrival might

generally complicate and delay the affair so near being concluded.

“Why, has he been here long?” the princess asked about Levin, as they

returned home.

“He came today, mamma.”

“There’s one thing I want to say....” began the princess, and from her

serious and alert face, Kitty guessed what it would be.

“Mamma,” she said, flushing hotly and turning quickly to her, “please,

please don’t say anything about that. I know, I know all about it.”

She wished for what her mother wished for, but the motives of her

mother’s wishes wounded her.

“I only want to say that to raise hopes....”

“Mamma, darling, for goodness’ sake, don’t talk about it. It’s so

horrible to talk about it.”

“I won’t,” said her mother, seeing the tears in her daughter’s eyes;

“but one thing, my love; you promised me you would have no secrets from

me. You won’t?”

“Never, mamma, none,” answered Kitty, flushing a little, and looking

her mother straight in the face, “but there’s no use in my telling you

anything, and I ... I ... if I wanted to, I don’t know what to say or

how.... I don’t know....”

“No, she could not tell an untruth with those eyes,” thought the

mother, smiling at her agitation and happiness. The princess smiled

that what was taking place just now in her soul seemed to the poor

child so immense and so important.