This was one of the things he had meant to speak about. He had resolved from the first to tell her two things - that he was not chaste as she was, and that he was not a believer. It was agonizing, but he considered he ought to tell her both these facts.
`No, not now, later!' he said.
`Very well, later, but you must certainly tell me. I'm not afraid of anything. I want to know everything. Now it is settled.'
He added:
`Settled that you'll take me whatever I may be - you won't give me up? Yes?'
`Yes, yes.'
Their conversation was interrupted by Mademoiselle Linon, who with an affected but tender smile came to congratulate her favorite pupil.
Before she had gone, the servants came in with their congratulations. Then relations arrived, and there began that state of blissful absurdity from which Levin did not emerge till the day after his wedding. Levin was in a continual state of awkwardness and discomfort, but the intensity of his happiness went on increasing all the while. He felt continually that a great deal was being expected of him - what, he did not know; and he did everything he was told, and it all gave him happiness. He had thought his engagement would have nothing about it like others, that the ordinary conditions of engaged couples would spoil his special happiness; but it ended in his doing exactly as other people did, and his happiness being only increased thereby and becoming more and more special, more and more unlike anything that had ever happened.
`Now we shall have sweetmeats to eat,' said Mademoiselle Linon - and Levin drove off to buy sweetmeats.
`Well, I'm very glad,' said Sviiazhsky. `I advise you to get the bouquets from Fomin's.'
`Oh, are they wanted?' And he drove to Fomin's.
His brother recommended lending money to him, as he would have so many expenses, presents to give...
`Oh, are presents wanted?' And he galloped to Foulde's.
And at the confectioner's, and at Fomin's, and at Foulde's he saw that he was expected; that they were pleased to see him, and prided themselves on his happiness, just as everyone did whom he had to do with during those days. What was extraordinary was that everyone not only liked him, but even people previously unsympathetic, cold, and callous, were enthusiastic over him, gave way to him in everything, treated his feelings with tenderness and delicacy, and shared his conviction that he was the happiest man in the world because his betrothed was beyond perfection.
Kitty too felt the same thing. When Countess Nordstone ventured to hint that she had hoped for something better, Kitty was so angry and proved so conclusively that nothing in the world could be better than Levin, that Countess Nordstone had to admit it, and in Kitty's presence never met Levin without a smile of ecstatic admiration.
The confession he had promised was the one painful incident of this time. He consulted the old Prince, and with his sanction gave Kitty his diary, in which there was written the confession that tortured him.
He had written this diary at the time with a view to his future wife. Two things caused him anguish: his lack of purity and his lack of faith. His confession of unbelief passed unnoticed. She was religious, had never doubted the truths of religion, but his external unbelief did not affect her in the least. Through love she knew all his soul, and in his soul she saw what she wanted, and that such a state of soul should be called unbelieving was to her a matter of no account. The other confession set her weeping bitterly.
Levin, not without an inner struggle, handed her his diary. He knew that between him and her there could not be, and should not be, any secrets, and so he had decided that so it must be. But he had not realized what an effect it would have on her, he had not put himself in her place.
It was only when the same evening he came to their house before the theater, went into her room, and saw her tearstained, pitiful, sweet face, miserable with the suffering he had caused and nothing could undo, that he felt the abyss that separated his shameful past from her dovelike purity, and was appalled at what he had done.
`Take them, take these dreadful books!' she said, pushing away the notebooks lying before her on the table. `Why did you give them me?
No, it was better anyway,' she added, touched by his despairing face. `But it's awful, awful!'
His head sank, and he was silent. He could say nothing.
`You can't forgive me,' he whispered.
`Yes, I forgive you; but it's horrible!'
But his happiness was so immense that this confession did not shatter it, it only added another shade to it. She forgave him; but from that time, more than ever, he considered himself unworthy of her, morally bowed down lower than ever before her, and prized more highly than ever his undeserved happiness.
[Next Chapter] [Table of Contents]TOLSTOY: Anna Karenina Part 4, Chapter 17[Previous Chapter] [Table of Contents] Chapter 17 Unconsciously going over in his memory the conversations that had taken place during and after dinner, Alexei Alexandrovich returned to his solitary room. Darya Alexandrovna's words about forgiveness had aroused in him nothing but annoyance. The applicability or nonapplicability of the Christian precept to his own case was too difficult a question to be discussed lightly, and this question had long ago been answered by Alexei Alexandrovich in the negative. Of all that had been said, what stuck most in his memory was the phrase of stupid, good-natured Turovtsin: `Acted like a man, he did!
Called him out and shot him!' Everyone had apparently shared this feeling, though from politeness they had not expressed it.
