Lyof (Lev or Leo) Tolstoy (who objects to his name being
transliterated Tolstoi) is generally recognised as the noblest
figure in modern Russia. He was born on the family estate at
Yasnaya Polyana, in the Government of Tula, about 100 miles
south of Moscow, on August 28 (new style September 9), 1828.
His father, Count N.I. Tolstoy, who retired from the army
about the time of his son's birth, had been among the
prisoners taken by Napoleon's invading forces in the war of
1812. He died suddenly in 1837. Young Tolstoy after three
years at Kazan University decided to abandon his college
studies without graduating, so repelled was he by the degraded
character of the average student. Retiring to his estate at
Yasnaya Polyana in 1847, he sought, though without success, to
ameliorate the condition of his serfs. The Imperial decree of
emancipation was not promulgated till 1861. In 1851 Count
Tolstoy joined the army in the Caucasus, and shortly
afterwards he participated in the defence of Sebastopol during
the great Crimean War. Since that period his life has been a
wonderful career of literary success. On his fine estate, with
his large family and his servants about him, he lives the life
of a simple peasant, advocating a form of socialism which he
considers to constitute a practical interpretation of the
Sermon on the Mount. In "Anna Karenina" Tolstoy manifestly
aims at furnishing an elaborate delineation of the
sociological ethics of high life in Russia. It is a lurid and
sombre recital, of the most realistic kind. It is not a story
of the masses, for no prominent characters from lower life
appear. Little is seen of the ways and doings of the poor. All
the real personages of this story are members of the
fashionable section of St. Petersburg and Moscow, or are great
landed proprietors, or high officials. In these pages appear
some of the noblest and some of the most profligate
characters, and all are perfectly typical. As in all the
writings of Tolstoy, wit and humour are entirely lacking, but
the emotionalism is intense, the psychological analysis is
masterly, and the fidelity to actual conditions is scrupulous.
The tale is a moral one, written with a purpose that is
consistently pursued throughout. Sin is displayed without a
mask, and its retribution is shown to be inevitable. There is
no attempt at varnishing or veneering the surface of a lax
moral order. The idea prevails among critics that Tolstoy
himself appears in this novel under the character of Levin.
(See also Vol. X, p. 291.)
_I_
The Oblonsky family was plunged into miserable confusion, for the wife,
through detecting a flirtation between her husband and the French
governess, declared she would no longer live with him. She remained in
her rooms, and the husband had not shown himself at home for three days.
Some of the servants quarrelled and others demanded their wages.
Prince Stepan Arkadyevitch (socially styled Stiva) had on returning one
evening from the theatre found his Dolly sitting with a letter in her
hand, and an expression of terror and despair on her countenance. "What
is this? This?" she asked. Instead of attempting a reply, Stepan smiled
good-humouredly and stupidly; and Dolly, after a flow of passionate
reproaches, rushed from the room.
Stepan had never imagined that any such discovery would have such an
effect on his wife. "How delightfully we were living till this
happened!" said he, as on the third morning after the outbreak he awoke
in his library, where he had rested on the lounge. "I never interfered
with Dolly, and she did as she pleased with the household and children.
What can be done?" He rose and put on his dressing gown and rang for his
valet, who came in response to the summons, followed by the barber. The
valet handed him a telegram, which announced that his loving sister,
Anna Arkadyevna, was coming on a visit. He was pleased to receive the
intelligence, for it might mean that she would effect a reconciliation.
Prince Stepan tranquilly partook of breakfast over his newspaper, and
became absorbed in thought. Suddenly two children's voices roused him
from his reverie. They were those of Grisha, his youngest boy, and
Tania, his eldest daughter. The little girl, his favourite, ran in and
laughingly and fondly embraced him. "What is mamma doing? Is she all
right?" he asked of the girl.
"I don't know," was the reply. "She told us we were not to have lessons
to-day but were to go to grandmamma's." He told the children to run
along, and then said to himself, "To go, or not to go--but it has to be
done, sooner or later," and straightening himself and lighting a
cigarette, he opened the door into his wife's room. She was standing in
the room removing the contents of a drawer, and turned her worn face on
Stepan with a look of terror. She had dreaded this moment, for though
she felt she could not stay, yet she knew she loved him and that it was
impossible to leave him.
"What do you want? Go away, go away," she cried. He broke into sobs and
began to beg forgiveness. "Dolly, think for the love of God of the
children. They are not to blame. I alone am to blame. Now, Dolly,
forgive me." But as the voice of one of the children was heard, she went
out from him and slammed the door.
_II_
Stepan Arkadyevitch was naturally idle, yet his natural gifts had
enabled him to do well at school, and he had gained an excellent
position at Moscow as _natchalnik_, or president of one of the courts,
through the influence of Aleksei Alexandrovitch Karenin, husband of his
sister Anna, one of the most important members of the ministry. In this
office Stepan enjoyed a salary of 6,000 roubles. Everyone who knew
Oblonsky liked him, for his amiability, honesty, and brilliance,
qualities which rendered him a most attractive character.
Going to his office after his unpleasant interview with his wife, he
attended to matters in the court for some time, and on suspending
business for lunch found his friend Levin waiting to see him--a
fair-complexioned, broad-shouldered man whom he often saw in Moscow.
Levin frequently came in from the country, full of enthusiasm about
great things he had been attempting, at the reports of which Stepan was
apt to smile in his good-humoured style. That Levin was in love with his
sister Kitty was well enough known to Stepan.
When Oblonsky on this occasion, after chatting over some rural concerns
in Levin's district, asked his friend what had specially brought him to
Moscow, Levin blushed and was vexed with himself for blushing. He could
not bring himself to reply that he had come to ask for the hand of
Stepan's sister-in-law Kitty, though that was really his errand. As a
student and a friend of the Shcherbatsky family, belonging like his own
to the old nobility of Moscow, Konstantin Levin at first thought himself
in love with Dolly, the eldest, but she married Oblonsky; then with
Natalie, who married Lyof, a diplomat; and finally his passion settled
on Kitty, who had been only a child when he left the University. He was
now thirty-two, was wealthy, would surely have been reckoned an
acceptable suitor, but had a most exalted opinion of Kitty, and to a
corresponding degree depreciated himself.
He feared that probably Kitty did not love him, and he knew that his
friends only looked upon him as a country proprietor, occupied with
farming, or amusing himself with hunting. He was not what is understood
as a society man. But he felt that he could no longer rest without
seeking to get the question settled whether she would or would not be
his wife.
_III_
Levin made his way to the gate of the Zoological Gardens and followed
the path to the ice-mountains, where he knew that he should find the
Shcherbatskys there, Kitty among them. He had seen their carriage at the
gate. It was a lovely day, and the gaily-clad fashionable people, the
Russian _izbas_ with their carved woodwork, the paths gleaming with
snow, and the old birch-trees, brilliant with icicles, combined to
render the whole scene one of fascination.
Drawing near the ice-mountains, where the sledges rushed down the
inclines, he soon discovered Kitty, who was on the opposite side,
standing in close conversation with a lady. For him her presence filled
the place with light and glory. He asked himself whether he was brave
enough to go and meet her on the ice. The spot where she was seemed to
him like a sanctuary, and all the persons privileged to be near her
seemed to be the elect of heaven. This day the ice was the common
meeting-ground for fashionable people, the masters in the art of skating
being among them. Nikolai Shcherbatsky, Kitty's cousin, catching sight
of Levin, exclaimed, "There is the best skater in Russia." Kitty
cordially invited Levin to skate with her. He did so, and the faster
they went together, the closer Kitty held his hand. And when after a
spin they rested, and she asked how long he was going to stay in St.
Petersburg, he astonished her by replying, "It depends on you." Either
she did not understand, or did not wish to understand, his words, for
she at once made an excuse to leave him.
At this moment Stepan came up and took Levin's arm, and the two went to
the restaurant. Here Levin opened his soul to Stepan, and Stepan assured
him that Kitty would become his wife. "But," said Levin, "it is shocking
that we who are already getting old dare not approach a pure and
innocent being. I look on my life with dismay, and mourn over it
bitterly."
Said Stepan, "You have not much cause for self-reproach. What can you
do? The world is thus constituted."
"There is only one comfort," replied Levin. "That is in the prayer I
have always delighted in: 'Pardon me not according to my deserts, but
according to Thy loving kindness.' Thus only can she forgive me."
_IV_
Kitty had another suitor, Count Vronsky, on whom she looked with the
favour that she could not accord to Levin. He was rich, intelligent, of
good birth, with a brilliant career before him in court and navy. He was
charming, and in him the Princess Shcherbatsky saw an admirable match
for her youngest daughter. Princess Kitty was now eighteen. She was the
favourite child of her father. It was manifest to both parents that she
was in love with Vronsky. Yet when at length Levin ventured on an actual
declaration of his love, she was deeply agitated. Lifting her sincere
glance to him, she said hastily, "This cannot be. Forgive me."
Anna Karenina arrived in the home of Stepan Arkadyevitch, where she was
received with cordial kisses by Dolly, who remembered that Stepan's
sister was not to blame, and that she was a _grande dame_ of St.
Petersburg, wife of one of the important personages of the city. She was
delighted to think that at last she could open her mind and tell her
troubles. And she was not disappointed, for in a lengthy and sympathetic
colloquy Dolly's heart was touched with the sentiment of forgiveness.
Anna was one of the most beautiful and graceful of women. And she was as
tactful as she was lovely. Before many hours she had successfully played
the part of peacemaker, and thanked God in her heart that she had been
able to effect complete reconciliation between Stepan and his wife. That
same evening Anna went to a grand ball with Kitty and her mother, where
the three were quickly saluted by Vronsky. It was a most brilliant
affair. But next morning Anna telegraphed to her husband that she was
leaving Moscow for home. It happened that Vronsky travelled by the same
train, and thus the two were thrown together for the long journey.
_V_
Aleksei Alexandrovitch, though he affectionately met his wife, found but
little time to spend with her. The next day several visitors came to
dine with the Karenins. Every moment of Aleksei's life was fully
occupied with his official duties, and he was forced to be strictly
regular and punctual in his arrangements. He was an excellent man, and
an intellectual one, delighting in art, poetry, and music, and loving to
talk of Shakespeare, Raphael, and Beethoven.
Society in St. Petersburg is very united, and Anna Karenina had very
friendly relations with the gay world of fashion, with its dinner
parties and balls. She met Vronsky at several of these brilliant
reunions. He, deeply impressed with her, notwithstanding his connection
with Kitty, went everywhere that he was likely to meet her, and her joy
at meeting him easily betrayed itself in her eyes and her smile. And he
did not refrain from actually making love to Anna on the occasions when
they were able to engage in tête-à-tête conversations. Nor was he
positively repelled. Soon the acquaintance became more and more
intimate. Meantime, Aleksei as usual would come home and, instead of
seeking his wife's society, would bury himself in his library amongst
his books. But suddenly the idea that his wife could form an attachment
to another man filled him with terror. He resolved to remonstrate with
her, but she received his expostulations with laughing and good-humoured
mockery, which entirely frustrated his purpose. He dropped the subject;
yet from that moment a new life began for the husband and wife. There
was no outward sign of the change. Anna continued to meet Vronsky, and
Aleksei felt himself powerless to intervene.
While Vronsky was thus entangling himself with Anna Karenina at St.
Petersburg, the Shcherbatskys at Moscow were growing anxious about the
health of Princess Kitty, their beautiful daughter who was so deeply in
love with him. She was ill, and after a consultation of physicians it
was decided that travelling abroad would be advisable. But the girl said
to herself that her trouble was one that they could not fathom, that her
supposed illness and the remedies she had to endure were nonsense. What
did they amount to? Nothing more than the gathering up of the fragments
of a broken vase to patch it up again. Her heart was broken, and could
it be healed by pills and powders?
_VI_
Absorbed by his passion, Vronsky yet proceeded in his regular manner of
life, sustaining as usual his social and military relations. He loved
his regiment and was very popular in it. Naturally, he spoke not a
syllable to anyone about his passion. He drank moderately, and not an
indiscreet word escaped him. But his mother was not a little disturbed
when she discovered that his infatuation for Madame Karenina had
impelled him to refuse an excellent promotion which would have
necessitated his removal from the metropolis. She feared that instead of
being a flirtation of which she might not disapprove, this passion might
develop into a Werther-like tragedy and lead her son to commit some
imprudence.
Many fashionable young ladies who were jealous of Anna and were weary of
hearing her praised, were malignantly pleased to hear rumours to her
disparagement and to feel justified in alluding scornfully to her.
Vronsky received a message from his mother in Moscow. She desired him to
come to her. His elder brother, though not himself by any means a
pattern of perfect propriety, strongly expressed his dissatisfaction,
because he felt that the unpleasant rumours would be likely to cause
displeasure in certain high quarters.
Early in the spring, Anna Karenina's husband went abroad, according to
his annual custom, to take the water-cure after the toils of winter.
Returning in July to St. Petersburg, he at once resumed his official
duties with the usual vigour. Anna had already gone into the country,
not far from the capital, to the summer _datcha_ at Peterhof. Since the
pair had failed to come to a mutual understanding coolness had existed,
but it was simply a cloud, not an actual alienation.
He resolved for the sake of appearances to visit his wife once a week.
To his astonishment, his doctor called voluntarily on him, to ask if he
might examine into the condition of his health. The secret reason of
this was that a kind friend, the Countess Lidia, had begged the doctor
to do so, as she had noticed that Aleksei did not look well. The medical
man after the diagnosis was perturbed with the result, for Aleksei's
liver was congested and his digestion was out of order. The waters had
not benefited him. He was ordered to take more physical exercise and to
undergo less mental strain, and above all to avoid all worry.
It was not with real pleasure, but with an affectation of cordiality
that Anna received her husband when he reached the _datcha_. She was gay
and animated. He was somewhat constrained, and the conversation was
without any special interest. But Anna afterwards could only recall it
with real pain. The crisis came on a racecourse. One of Vronsky's chief
pleasures was horse-racing, and at the brilliant races that season he
himself rode his own splendid horse. But the occasion was a most
disastrous one, for at the hurdle races more than half the riders were
thrown, Vronsky being one of them. He was picked up uninjured, but the
horse had its back broken.
Aleksei and his wife and several friends were amongst the gay crowd, and
he noted with deep displeasure that his wife turned pale when the
accident happened and was strangely excited throughout the occasion. In
the carriage, as the pair returned, he taxed her with her unseemly
demeanour, and a violent quarrel ensued, in which she exclaimed, "I love
him. I fear you. I hate you. Do as you please with me." And Anna flung
herself to the bottom of the carriage, covering her face with her hands
and sobbing convulsively.
Aleksei sat in silence during the rest of the journey home, but as they
came near the house he said, "I insist that from this moment appearances
be preserved for the sake of my honour, and I will communicate my
decision to you after I have considered what measures I shall take." He
assisted her to alight at the _datcha_, shook hands with her in the
presence of the servants, and returned to St. Petersburg.
"Thank God, it is all over between us," said Anna to herself. But,
notwithstanding this reflection, she had felt strangely impressed by the
aspect of deathlike rigidity in her husband's face, though he gave no
sign of inward agitation. As he rode off alone he felt a keen pain in
his heart. But, curiously enough, he also experienced a sensation of
deep relief of soul now that a vast load of doubt and jealousy had been
lifted from him.
"I always knew she was without either heart or religion," said he to
himself. "I made a mistake when I united my life with hers, but I should
not be unhappy, for my error was not my fault. Henceforth for me she
does not exist." He pondered over the problem whether he should
challenge Vronsky, but he soon decided against the idea of fighting a
duel. No one would expect it of him, so his reputation would not be
injured by abstaining from such a proceeding. At length he came to the
conclusion that an open separation would not be expedient and that the
_status quo_ alone was advisable, on the condition that Anna should obey
his will and break off her acquaintance with Vronsky.
"Only thus," thought Aleksei, "can I conform to the requirements of
religion. I give her another chance, and consecrate my powers to her
salvation." He wrote his wife a letter saying that for his own sake, for
her sake, and the sake of her son, their lives must remain unchanged,
the family must not be sacrificed, and as he was sure she felt penitent,
he hoped at their next interview to come to a complete understanding.
Though, when she received this communication, Anna felt her anger
rising, yet her heart told her that she was in a false position from
which she longed to escape. A new sensation had taken possession of her
soul, and she seemed to be a double kind of personality. At length,
after long agitation she wrote to her husband, telling him that she
could no longer remain in his house, but was going away, taking their
boy Serosha with her. "Be generous; let me have him," were the last
words in the letter. She wrote a little note to Vronsky, but her cheeks
burned as she wrote, and presently she tore the note to tatters. Then
she made her preparations for going to Moscow.
_VII_
Anna returned to the home in St. Petersburg. Husband and wife met with a
silent greeting, and the silence lasted some time. Then ensued an
interview in which each side coldly accused the other, but which ended
in Aleksei's demand that his wife should so comport herself that neither
the world nor the servants could accuse her, on which condition she
could enjoy the position and fulfil the duties of an honourable wife.
And so the Kareninas continued to live in the same house, to meet daily,
and yet to remain strangers to each other. Vronsky was never seen near
the place, yet Anna met him elsewhere and Aleksei knew it.
Meanwhile, a change was coming over the prospect for Kitty and Levin. He
had never renounced the hope of possessing the beautiful girl, and at
length she had come to understand his nobility of character and to feel
that she could reciprocate his affection. During a conversation with
her, he watched as she mechanically drew circles with chalk on the
table-cloth.
"I have waited for a long time to ask you a question," said he, looking
fondly at her.
"What is it?" said Kitty.
"This is it," said Levin, taking the chalk and writing the letters w, y,
s, i, i, i, w, i, i, t, o, a? The letters were the initials of the
words, "When you said 'It is impossible,' was it impossible then, or
always?"
Kitty studied the letters long and attentively, and at length took the
chalk and, blushing deeply, wrote the letters: t, I, c, n, a, d. Levin's
face soon beamed with joy. He comprehended that the reply was: "Then I
could not answer differently." Everything was settled. Kitty had
acknowledged her love for him, and Levin at last was happy.
_VIII_
Aleksei sat alone in his room, pondering events, when he was startled by
a telegram from his wife--"I am dying. I beg you to come; I shall die
easier if I have your forgiveness." He read the words with momentary
scorn, imagining that some scheme of deceit was being practised. But
presently he reflected that it might be true, and, if so, it would be
cruel and foolish to refuse to go, and besides, everybody would blame
him.
He travelled all night and arrived, tired and dusty, in the morning at
St. Petersburg. Reaching his house, he went into the drawing-room, and
the nurse quickly led him into the bedroom, saying, "Thank God, you have
come. She talks only of you."
"Bring ice at once," the doctor's voice was heard saying. Aleksei was
startled to see in the boudoir, seated on a low chair, Vronsky, weeping
with his hands over his face. And the latter was startled in turn as,
disturbed by the doctor's words, he looked up and caught sight of the
husband. He rose and seemed desiring to disappear, but with an evident
effort said, "She is dying and the doctors say there is no hope. I am in
your power, but allow me to stay and I will conform to your wishes."
Aleksei turned without replying and went to the door. Anna was talking
clearly and gaily. Her cheeks were bright and her eyes gleamed. Rattling
on incoherently, she suddenly recognised her husband, and looking
terrified, raised her hands as if to avert a blow; but she said the next
moment, "No, no, I am not afraid of him, I am afraid of dying. Aleksei,
I have but a few moments to live. Soon the fever will return and I shall
know nothing more, but now I understand everything. There is another
being in me, who loved him and hated you, but now I am my real self. But
no, you cannot forgive me. Go away, you are too good."
With one burning hand she pushed him away, with the other she held him.
Aleksei's emotion became uncontrollable. His soul was filled with love
and forgiveness. Kneeling by the bed, he sobbed like a child. The
doctors said that there was not one chance in a hundred of her living.
Vronsky returned to his home in an agony of soul. He tried in vain to
sleep. Visions of the faces of Aleksei and Anna rose before him.
Suddenly his brain seemed to receive a shock. He rose, paced the room,
went to the table, took from it a revolver, which he examined and
loaded. Presently he held it to his breast and without flinching pulled
the trigger. The blow knocked him down, but he had failed to kill
himself The valet, who had heard the report, ran in, but was so
frightened at the sight of his master lying on the floor wounded that he
rushed out again for help. In an hour came Varia, Vronsky's
sister-in-law, who sent for three doctors. They managed to put the
wounded man to bed, and Varia stayed to nurse him.
_IX_
Vronsky's wound, though the heart was not touched, was so dangerous that
for several days his life was in the balance. But gradually the crisis
passed, and as he recovered he felt calmed with the conviction that he
had now effected redemption from his faults. He accepted without
hesitation an appointment to a position in Tashkend. But the nearer the
time came, the more irrepressible grew the desire to see Anna for a
farewell. He sent her a message, and she waited for his coming. The
visit was fatal. Anna had made up her mind what to say, but the presence
of Vronsky instantly overcame her resolution, and when she could find
words she said, "Yes, you have conquered me. I am yours."
A month later Aleksei was left alone with his son, and Anna went abroad
with Vronsky.
The marriage of Levin and Kitty was a brilliant occasion. A difficulty
for Levin before the marriage was the necessity of attending confession.
Like the majority of his fellows in society, he cherished no decided
views on religion. He did not believe, nor did he positively disbelieve.
But there could be no wedding without a certificate of confession. To
the priest he frankly acknowledged his doubts, that doubt was his chief
sin, that he was nearly always in doubt. But the gentle and kindly
priest exhorted him to cultivate the practice of prayer, and then
pronounced the formula of absolution.
In presence of a great assembly the wedding took place. The same priest
who had heard the confession ministered for the marriage. He handed to
each of the couple a lighted candle decorated with flowers. The chanting
of an invisible choir resounded richly through the church, and when the
liturgy was finished, the solemn benediction was read over the bridal
pair. It was a great event in the fashionable world of Moscow.
_X_
Anna and Vronsky had been travelling for three months in Europe. As for
Anna, she had revelled in the exuberance of her freedom from a
disagreeable past, the events of which seemed like some frightful
nightmare. She appeased her conscience to some extent by saying to
herself: "I have done my husband an irreparable injury, but I also
suffer, and I shall suffer." The prediction was soon fulfilled. Vronsky
soon began to feel dissatisfied. He grew weary of lack of occupation in
foreign cities for sixteen hours a day. Life soon became intolerable in
little Italian cities, and Anna, though astonished at this speedy
disillusionment, agreed to return to Russia and to spend the summer on
his estate. They travelled home, but neither of them was happy. Vronsky
perceived that Anna was in a strange state of mind, evidently tormented
by something which she made no attempt to explain. By degrees she, on
her part, realized that Vronsky was willing to absent himself from her
society on various excuses. Quarrels became frequent, and at length
alienation was complete.
* * * * *
A tragedy happened on the railway. A woman went along the platform of
the station and walked off on to the line. Like a madman a short time
afterwards Vronsky rushed into the barracks where Anna's body had been
carried. Her head was untouched, with its heavy braids of hair and light
curls gathered about the temples. Her eyes were half closed and her lips
were slightly opened as if she was about to speak, and to repeat the
last words she had uttered to him: "You will repent."
The war with Turkey had broken out, and Vronsky, disgusted with his
whole life, left for Servia.
* * * * *