When the rite of betrothal was finished, a verger spread a piece of pink silk in front of the lectern in the middle of the church, the choir began singing an artful and elaborate psalm16 in which bass and tenor echoed each other, and the priest, turning, motioned the betrothed to the spread-out piece of pink cloth. Often and much as they had both heard about the belief that whoever is first to step on the rug will be the head in the family, neither Levin nor Kitty could recall it as they made those few steps. Nor did they hear the loud remarks and disputes that, in the observation of some, he had been the first, or, in the opinion of others, they had stepped on it together.
After the usual questions about their desire to enter into matrimony and whether they were promised to others, and their replies, which sounded strange to their own ears, a new service began. Kitty was listening to the words of the prayer, wishing to understand their meaning, but she could not. A feeling of triumph and bright joy overflowed her soul more and more as the rite continued and made it impossible for her to be attentive.
They prayed ‘that there be granted unto them chastity and the fruit of the womb as is expedient for them, and be made glad with the sight of sons and daughters’. It was mentioned that God had created woman out of Adam’s rib, ‘for which cause a man will leave his father and mother and cleave unto his wife, and the two shall be one flesh’, and that ‘this is a great mystery’; it was asked that God grant them fruitfulness and blessing as He did to Isaac and Rebecca, Joseph, Moses and Sepphora, and that they see their children’s children.17 ‘All this is very beautiful,’ Kitty thought, listening to these words, ‘all this cannot be otherwise,’ and a smile of joy, which involuntarily communicated itself to everyone who looked at her, shone on her radiant face.
‘Put it all the way on!’ came the advice, when the priest put the crowns on them, and Shcherbatsky, his hand trembling in its three-buttoned glove, held the crown high over her head.
‘Put it on!’ she whispered, smiling.
Levin looked at her and was struck by the joyful glow of her face; and the feeling involuntarily communicated itself to him. He felt just as bright and happy as she did.
They were happy listening to the reading of the epistle and to the roll of the protodeacon’s voice at the last verse, awaited with such impatience by the public outside. They were happy drinking the warm red wine mixed with water from the flat cup, and happier still when the priest, flinging back his chasuble and taking both their hands in his, led them around the lectern to the outbursts of the bass singing ‘Rejoice, O Isaiah’.18 Shcherbatsky and Chirikov, who followed them holding the crowns over their heads, getting tangled in the bride’s train, also smiling and rejoicing at something, first lagged behind, then bumped into them each time the priest stopped. The spark of joy that had flared up in Kitty seemed to have communicated itself to everyone in the church. To Levin it seemed that both the priest and the deacon wanted to smile just as he did.
Having taken the crowns from their heads, the priest read the final prayer and congratulated the young couple. Levin looked at Kitty, and never before had he seen her like that. She was lovely with that new glow of happiness in her face. Levin wanted to say something to her, but he did not know if it was over yet. The priest resolved his difficulty. He smiled with his kindly mouth and said softly:
‘Kiss your wife, and you kiss your husband,’ and he took the candles from their hands.
Levin carefully kissed her smiling lips, offered her his arm and, feeling a new, strange closeness, started out of the church. He did not believe, he could not believe, that it was true. Only when their surprised and timid eyes met did he believe it, because he felt that they were already one.
After supper that same night the young couple left for the country.
VII
For three months Vronsky and Anna had been travelling together in Europe. They had visited Venice, Rome, Naples and had just arrived in a small Italian town where they wanted to stay for a while.
The handsome maître d‘hôtel, his thick, pomaded hair parted from the nape up, wearing a tailcoat and a wide white cambric shirtfront, a bunch of charms on his round pot-belly, his hands thrust into his pockets, his eyes narrowed contemptuously, was sternly saying something in reply to a gentleman who stood before him. Hearing footsteps coming up the stairs from the other side of the entrance, the maître d’hôtel turned and, seeing the Russian count who occupied their best rooms, respectfully pulled his hands from his pockets and, inclining, explained that a messenger had come and that the matter of renting the palazzo had been settled. The manager was ready to sign the agreement.
‘Ah! I’m very glad,’ said Vronsky. ‘And is the lady at home or not?’
