Part Four: Chapter 16

by Leo Tolstoy

　　The princess sat in her armchair, silent and smiling; the princesat down beside her. Kitty stood by her father's chair, stillholding his hand. All were silent.

　　The princess was the first to put everything into words, and totranslate all thoughts and feelings into practical questions.And all equally felt this strange and painful for the firstminute.

　　"When is it to be? We must have the benediction andannouncement. And when's the wedding to be? What do you think,Alexander?"

　　"Here he is," said the old prince, pointing to Levin--"he's theprincipal person in the matter."

　　"When?" said Levin blushing. "Tomorrow; If you ask me, I shouldsay, the benediction today and the wedding tomorrow."

　　"Come, mon cher, that's nonsense!"

　　"Well, in a week."

　　"He's quite mad."

　　"No, why so?"

　　"Well, upon my word!" said the mother, smiling, delighted at thishaste. "How about the trousseau?"

　　"Will there really be a trousseau and all that?" Levin thoughtwith horror. "But can the trousseau and the benediction and allthat--can it spoil my happiness? Nothing can spoil it!" Heglanced at Kitty, and noticed that she was not in the least, notin the very least, disturbed by the idea of the trousseau. "Thenit must be all right," he thought.

　　"Oh, I know nothing about it; I only said what I should like,"he said apologetically.

　　"We'll talk it over, then. The benediction and announcement cantake place now. That's very well."

　　The princess went up to her husband, kissed him, and would havegone away, but he kept her, embraced her, and tenderly as a younglover, kissed her several times, smiling. The old people wereobviously muddled for a moment, and did not quite know whether itwas they who were in love again or their daughter. When theprince and the princess had gone, Levin went up to his betrothedand took her hand. He was self-possessed now and could speak,and he had a great deal he wanted to tell her. But he said notat all what he had to say.

　　"How I knew it would be so! I never hoped for it; and yet in myheart I was always sure," he said. "I believe that it wasordained."

　　"And I!" she said. "Even when...." She stopped and went onagain, looking at him resolutely with her truthful eyes, "Evenwhen I thrust from me my happiness. I always loved you alone,but I was carried away. I ought to tell you.... Can you forgivethat?"

　　"Perhaps it was for the best. You will have to forgive me somuch. I ought to tell you..."

　　This was one of the things he had meant to speak about. He hadresolved from the first to tell her two things--that he was notchaste as she was, and that he was not a believer. It wasagonizing, but he considered he ought to tell her both thesefacts.

　　"No, not now, later!" he said.

　　"Very well, later, but you must certainly tell me. I'm notafraid of anything. I want to know everything. Now it issettled."

　　He added: "Settled that you'll take me whatever I may be--youwon't give me up? Yes?"

　　"Yes, yes."

　　Their conversation was interrupted by Mademoiselle Linon, whowith an affected but tender smile came to congratulate herfavorite pupil. Before she had gone, the servants came in withtheir congratulations. Then relations arrived, and there beganthat state of blissful absurdity from which Levin did not emergetill the day after his wedding. Levin was in a continual stateof awkwardness and discomfort, but the intensity of his happinesswent on all the while increasing. He felt continually that agreat deal was being expected of him--what, he did not know; andhe did everything he was told, and it all gave him happiness. Hehad thought his engagement would have nothing about it likeothers, that the ordinary conditions of engaged couples wouldspoil his special happiness; but it ended in his doing exactly asother people did, and his happiness being only increased therebyand becoming more and more special, more and more unlike anythingthat 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 Sviazhsky. "I advise you to get thebouquets from Fomin's."

　　"Oh, are they wanted?" And he drove to Fomin's.

　　His brother offered to lend him money, as he would have so manyexpenses, 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 sawthat he was expected; that they were pleased to see him, andprided themselves on his happiness, just as every one whom he hadto do with during those days. What was extraordinary was thateveryone not only liked him, but even people previouslyunsympathetic, cold, and callous, were enthusiastic over him,gave way to him in everything, treated his feeling withtenderness and delicacy, and shared his conviction that he wasthe happiest man in the world because his betrothed was beyondperfection. Kitty too felt the same thing. When CountessNordston ventured to hint that she had hoped for somethingbetter, Kitty was so angry and proved so conclusively thatnothing in the world could be better than Levin, that CountessNordston had to admit it, and in Kitty's presence never met Levinwithout a smile of ecstatic admiration.

　　The confession he had promised was the one painful incident ofthis time. He consulted the old prince, and with his sanctiongave Kitty his diary, in which there was written the confessionthat tortured him. He had written this diary at the time with aview to his future wife. Two things caused him anguish: his lackof purity and his lack of faith. His confession of unbeliefpassed unnoticed. She was religious, had never doubted thetruths of religion, but his external unbelief did not affect herin the least. Through love she knew all his soul, and in hissoul she saw what she wanted, and that such a state of soulshould 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. Heknew that between him and her there could not be, and should notbe, secrets, and so he had decided that so it must be. But hehad not realized what an effect it would have on her, he had notput himself in her place. It was only when the same evening hecame to their house before the theater, went into her room andsaw her tear-stained, pitiful, sweet face, miserable withsuffering he had caused and nothing could undo, he felt the abyssthat separated his shameful past from her dovelike purity, andwas appalled at what he had done.

　　"Take them, take these dreadful books!" she said, pushing awaythe notebooks lying before her on the table. "Why did you givethem me? No, it was better anyway," she added, touched by hisdespairing 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 terrible!"

　　But his happiness was so immense that this confession did notshatter it, it only added another shade to it. She forgave him;but from that time more than ever he considered himself unworthyof her, morally bowed down lower than ever before her, and prizedmore highly than ever his undeserved happiness.