第一百二十七章 第三章
教堂里灯火辉煌，准备举行婚礼，一大群人，主要是妇女，围得水泄不通。那些没能挤进正门的人，都挤在窗户前，推推搡搡，争吵不休，透过栅栏往里张望。
二十多辆马车已经由警察在街边排成行列。一位警官穿着华丽的制服，不顾严寒，站在门口。马车还在不断驶来，头戴鲜花、手曳长裙的女士们，脱下头盔或黑帽的男士们，络绎不绝地走进教堂。教堂里两盏大吊灯已经点亮，圣像前的所有蜡烛也都点着了。圣像壁红底上的鎏金、圣像上的金色浮雕、吊灯和烛台的银光、地板上的石块、地毯、唱诗班席位上方的旗帜、祭坛的台阶、陈旧的发黑的书本、神父的法衣和白色长袍——一切都沐浴在灯光中。在温暖的教堂右侧，在燕尾服和白领带、制服和呢料、丝绒、缎子、头发和鲜花、裸露的肩膀和手臂以及长手套的人群中，有谨慎而活跃的谈话，在高高的穹顶下回响着奇特的回声。每次听到开门的吱嘎声，人群中谈话声就会平息下来，大家都回头张望，期待看到新郎新娘进来。但门已经开了十多次，每次进来的要么是迟到的客人，加入右侧被邀请者的圈子；要么是某个躲过或贿赂了警官的旁观者，混入左侧外人的人群。此时，客人和旁观者都已历尽等待的各个阶段。
起初，他们以为新郎新娘马上就到，对他们的迟到毫不在意。然后，他们开始越来越频繁地朝门口张望，谈论是否出了什么事。接着，长时间的延迟开始让人感到不安，亲戚和宾客们竭力装作没在想新郎，而是专注于交谈。
大辅祭仿佛在提醒他们他时间宝贵似的，不耐烦地咳嗽起来，震得窗玻璃在窗框里嘎嘎作响。唱诗班里，可以听到无聊的歌手们在试音、擤鼻涕。神父不断先派执事、后派辅祭去打听新郎是不是来了，他自己也穿着淡紫色法衣、系着绣花腰带，越来越频繁地走到侧门，期望看到新郎。最后，一位女士看了看手表，说道：“这实在很奇怪啊！”于是所有宾客都感到不安，开始大声表示惊讶和不满。新郎的一位伴郎前去打听出了什么事。与此同时，基蒂早已准备就绪，她穿着白色连衣裙，披着长长的婚纱，戴着橙花头饰，正站在谢尔巴茨基家的客厅里，身边是她姐姐利沃娃夫人，也就是她的伴娘。她望着窗外，已经焦虑不安地等了半个多小时，盼望着伴郎传来新郎已到教堂的消息。
而此时，列文穿着裤子，却没穿上衣和背心，在旅馆房间里来回踱步，不停地探头到门外，朝走廊上下张望。可走廊里根本没有他要找的那个人，他绝望地走回来，疯狂地挥舞着双手，对正悠闲抽着烟的斯捷潘·阿尔卡季奇说：“有谁像我这样陷入如此可怕的傻瓜境地吗？”
“是啊，是够蠢的。”斯捷潘·阿尔卡季奇随声附和，宽慰地微笑道，“不过别着急，马上就会送来。”
“不，我们该怎么办！”列文强压怒火说，“还有这些傻瓜开的背心！根本没辙！”他看着自己皱巴巴的衬衫前襟说，“要是东西已经送到火车站去了呢！”他绝望地吼叫起来。
“那就穿我的。”
“我要是早点想到，早就该穿了。”
“闹笑话可不光彩……等等！事情会解决的。”
事情是这样的：当列文要他的晚礼服时，他的老仆人库兹马给他拿来了外套、背心以及所有需要的东西。
“可是衬衫呢！”列文喊道。
“您身上不是穿着衬衫吗？”库兹马平静地微笑着回答。
库兹马忘了留出一件干净衬衫。接到指示要把所有东西收拾好送到谢尔巴茨基家（新婚夫妇当晚将从那里出发）时，他就照做了，把所有东西都打包了，偏偏没包礼服。从早上穿的那件衬衫已经皱了，没法配时尚的开襟背心。送到谢尔巴茨基家去的话路太远了。他们派人出去买衬衫。仆人回来了——所有店铺都关门了，因为是星期天。他们又派人到斯捷潘·阿尔卡季奇家取衬衫——拿来一看，又宽又短，根本穿不了。最后只好派人去谢尔巴茨基家，把行李拆开取衬衫。新郎本应到教堂了，而他却在房间里像笼中困兽一样来回踱步，不时朝走廊张望，惊恐而绝望地想起自己对基蒂说过哪些蠢话，她现在会怎么想。
最后，那个失职的库兹马气喘吁吁地冲进房间，手里拿着衬衫。
“总算赶上了。他们正要把它装进运货车呢。”库兹马说。
三分钟后，列文全速冲进走廊，不敢看表，生怕加剧自己的痛苦。
“你这样无济于事。”斯捷潘·阿尔卡季奇笑着说，不慌不忙地跟在后面，“事情会解决的，会解决的……我跟你说。”
A crowd of people, principally women, was thronging round the church
lighted up for the wedding. Those who had not succeeded in getting into
the main entrance were crowding about the windows, pushing, wrangling,
and peeping through the gratings.
More than twenty carriages had already been drawn up in ranks along the
street by the police. A police officer, regardless of the frost, stood
at the entrance, gorgeous in his uniform. More carriages were
continually driving up, and ladies wearing flowers and carrying their
trains, and men taking off their helmets or black hats kept walking
into the church. Inside the church both lusters were already lighted,
and all the candles before the holy pictures. The gilt on the red
ground of the holy picture-stand, and the gilt relief on the pictures,
and the silver of the lusters and candlesticks, and the stones of the
floor, and the rugs, and the banners above in the choir, and the steps
of the altar, and the old blackened books, and the cassocks and
surplices—all were flooded with light. On the right side of the warm
church, in the crowd of frock coats and white ties, uniforms and
broadcloth, velvet, satin, hair and flowers, bare shoulders and arms
and long gloves, there was discreet but lively conversation that echoed
strangely in the high cupola. Every time there was heard the creak of
the opened door the conversation in the crowd died away, and everybody
looked round expecting to see the bride and bridegroom come in. But the
door had opened more than ten times, and each time it was either a
belated guest or guests, who joined the circle of the invited on the
right, or a spectator, who had eluded or softened the police officer,
and went to join the crowd of outsiders on the left. Both the guests
and the outside public had by now passed through all the phases of
anticipation.
At first they imagined that the bride and bridegroom would arrive
immediately, and attached no importance at all to their being late.
Then they began to look more and more often towards the door, and to
talk of whether anything could have happened. Then the long delay began
to be positively discomforting, and relations and guests tried to look
as if they were not thinking of the bridegroom but were engrossed in
conversation.
The head deacon, as though to remind them of the value of his time,
coughed impatiently, making the window-panes quiver in their frames. In
the choir the bored choristers could be heard trying their voices and
blowing their noses. The priest was continually sending first the
beadle and then the deacon to find out whether the bridegroom had not
come, more and more often he went himself, in a lilac vestment and an
embroidered sash, to the side door, expecting to see the bridegroom. At
last one of the ladies, glancing at her watch, said, “It really is
strange, though!” and all the guests became uneasy and began loudly
expressing their wonder and dissatisfaction. One of the bridegroom’s
best men went to find out what had happened. Kitty meanwhile had long
ago been quite ready, and in her white dress and long veil and wreath
of orange blossoms she was standing in the drawing-room of the
Shtcherbatskys’ house with her sister, Madame Lvova, who was her
bridal-mother. She was looking out of the window, and had been for over
half an hour anxiously expecting to hear from the best man that her
bridegroom was at the church.
Levin meanwhile, in his trousers, but without his coat and waistcoat,
was walking to and fro in his room at the hotel, continually putting
his head out of the door and looking up and down the corridor. But in
the corridor there was no sign of the person he was looking for and he
came back in despair, and frantically waving his hands addressed Stepan
Arkadyevitch, who was smoking serenely.
“Was ever a man in such a fearful fool’s position?” he said.
“Yes, it is stupid,” Stepan Arkadyevitch assented, smiling soothingly.
“But don’t worry, it’ll be brought directly.”
“No, what is to be done!” said Levin, with smothered fury. “And these
fools of open waistcoats! Out of the question!” he said, looking at the
crumpled front of his shirt. “And what if the things have been taken on
to the railway station!” he roared in desperation.
“Then you must put on mine.”
“I ought to have done so long ago, if at all.”
“It’s not nice to look ridiculous.... Wait a bit! it will _come
round_.”
The point was that when Levin asked for his evening suit, Kouzma, his
old servant, had brought him the coat, waistcoat, and everything that
was wanted.
“But the shirt!” cried Levin.
“You’ve got a shirt on,” Kouzma answered, with a placid smile.
Kouzma had not thought of leaving out a clean shirt, and on receiving
instructions to pack up everything and send it round to the
Shtcherbatskys’ house, from which the young people were to set out the
same evening, he had done so, packing everything but the dress suit.
The shirt worn since the morning was crumpled and out of the question
with the fashionable open waistcoat. It was a long way to send to the
Shtcherbatskys’. They sent out to buy a shirt. The servant came back;
everything was shut up—it was Sunday. They sent to Stepan
Arkadyevitch’s and brought a shirt—it was impossibly wide and short.
They sent finally to the Shtcherbatskys’ to unpack the things. The
bridegroom was expected at the church while he was pacing up and down
his room like a wild beast in a cage, peeping out into the corridor,
and with horror and despair recalling what absurd things he had said to
Kitty and what she might be thinking now.
At last the guilty Kouzma flew panting into the room with the shirt.
“Only just in time. They were just lifting it into the van,” said
Kouzma.
Three minutes later Levin ran full speed into the corridor, not looking
at his watch for fear of aggravating his sufferings.
“You won’t help matters like this,” said Stepan Arkadyevitch with a
smile, hurrying with more deliberation after him. “It will come round,
it will come round ... I tell you.”
