第一百二十九章 第五部
第五部
教堂里聚集了全莫斯科的亲友。在灯火辉煌的教堂中，举行订婚仪式时，衣着华丽的女士们和小姐们以及佩戴白领结、穿燕尾服和制服的先生们组成的圈子里，始终回荡着谨慎压低的交谈声。主要是男人们在交谈，而女人们则全神贯注地观察着仪式的每个细节——这对她们来说总是意义重大。
在靠近新娘的小圈子里，是她两个姐妹：多莉和另一位刚从国外回来的沉稳美人利沃夫夫人。
"玛丽怎么在婚礼上穿丁香紫？简直像黑色一样糟糕。"科尔孙斯卡娅夫人说。
"以她的肤色，只有这种颜色才合适。"特鲁别茨卡娅夫人回应道。"真奇怪他们为什么要在晚上举行婚礼？像生意人家似的......"
"这样更美。我当年也是在晚上结婚的......"科尔孙斯卡娅夫人叹了口气，回忆起当年自己多么迷人，丈夫多么痴情地爱着她，而如今一切都变了样。
"据说如果有人当十次以上伴郎，就永远结不了婚。我想当第十次，可位置被人占了。"西尼亚温伯爵对有意于他的漂亮恰尔斯卡娅公爵小姐说。
恰尔斯卡娅公爵小姐只是报以微笑。她望着吉娣，暗自思忖何时何地她也能取代吉娣的位置与西尼亚温伯爵站在一起，那时她定要提醒他今天说的这个笑话。
谢尔巴茨基告诉老宫廷女官尼古拉耶娃夫人，他打算把花冠戴在吉娣的发髻上以求吉利。
"她不该梳发髻。"尼古拉耶娃夫人答道——她早已打定主意，如果她追求的那位年长鳏夫娶她，婚礼一定要办得最简单。"我不喜欢这种排场。"
谢尔盖·伊万诺维奇正与达里娅·德米特里耶夫娜交谈，开玩笑说婚后旅行已成时尚，因为新婚夫妇总有点难为情。
"您哥哥应该感到自豪。她是如此甜美可人。我想您一定很羡慕吧。"
"哦，我已经过了那个阶段了，达里娅·德米特里耶夫娜。"他答道，脸上突然浮现出忧郁而严肃的神情。
斯捷潘·阿尔卡季奇正跟嫂子讲他那个关于离婚的笑话。
"花冠需要扶正。"她没听见他的话，只应了一句。
"真可惜她容貌大不如前了。"诺德斯顿伯爵夫人对利沃夫夫人说。"不过他还是配不上她的一根小指头，对吧？"
"哦，我很喜欢他——并非因为他是我未来的妹夫。"利沃夫夫人答道。"他表现得多么得体！在这种场合能保持体面而不显得可笑，实在不容易。他既不滑稽也不做作，看得出他很感动。"
"您早就预料到了吧？"
"差不多。她一直爱着他。"
"好吧，我们倒要看看谁先踩上地毯。我已经提醒过吉娣了。"
"那没什么区别。"利沃夫夫人说。"我们都是顺从的妻子——这是咱们家的传统。"
"哦，我当年可是故意抢在瓦西里之前踩上地毯的。你呢，多莉？"
多莉站在她们身旁，听见了谈话却没有回答。她深受感动，泪水盈眶，一开口就会哭出来。她为吉蒂和列文高兴，思绪又回到自己的婚礼，瞥了一眼容光焕发的斯捷潘·阿尔卡季奇，忘却了眼前的一切，只记得自己纯真的爱情。她不仅想起自己，也想起所有女友和熟人。她想到她们在人生中最辉煌的那一天，像吉蒂此刻一样头戴新娘花冠，心中充满爱情、希望与恐惧，告别过去，迈入神秘的未来。在记忆中浮现的新娘中，她也想起了亲爱的安娜——刚刚听说她即将离婚。当年的安娜也曾这般纯真地戴着橙花和婚纱。而现在呢？"真是奇怪得可怕。"她自言自语道。
不仅新娘的姐妹、女友和女眷们在关注仪式的每个细节，连素不相识的女旁观者也激动地注视着，屏息凝神，生怕错过新郎新娘的一举一动一颦一笑，对那些不断说笑或发表不相干评论的冷漠男人们常常充耳不闻，甚至恼怒地不予回应。
"她为什么哭？难道是迫不得已结婚？"
"迫不得已嫁给这样的好人儿？他可是位公爵吧？"
"那是她穿白缎裙的姐姐吗？听助祭洪亮地念道'要敬畏丈夫'。"
"唱诗班是来自丘多沃修道院的吗？"
"不，是从主教公会来的。"
"我问过仆人，他说新郎马上要带新娘回乡下庄园。据说他非常有钱，新娘才嫁给他。"
"不，他们很般配。"
"我说，玛丽娅·瓦西里耶夫娜，您之前还断言那种夸张的裙撑不流行了。看看那位穿暗红色裙子的太太——据说她是大使之妻——她的裙摆左右摇晃得多厉害！"
"新娘多可爱啊——像只缀满鲜花的小羊羔！唉，不管怎么说，我们女人总能理解姐妹的心情。"
挤进教堂门口的妇女围观人群中传来这样的议论。
In the church there was all Moscow, all the friends and relations; and
during the ceremony of plighting troth, in the brilliantly lighted
church, there was an incessant flow of discreetly subdued talk in the
circle of gaily dressed women and girls, and men in white ties,
frockcoats, and uniforms. The talk was principally kept up by the men,
while the women were absorbed in watching every detail of the ceremony,
which always means so much to them.
In the little group nearest to the bride were her two sisters: Dolly,
and the other one, the self-possessed beauty, Madame Lvova, who had
just arrived from abroad.
“Why is it Marie’s in lilac, as bad as black, at a wedding?” said
Madame Korsunskaya.
“With her complexion, it’s the one salvation,” responded Madame
Trubetskaya. “I wonder why they had the wedding in the evening? It’s
like shop-people....”
“So much prettier. I was married in the evening too....” answered
Madame Korsunskaya, and she sighed, remembering how charming she had
been that day, and how absurdly in love her husband was, and how
different it all was now.
“They say if anyone’s best man more than ten times, he’ll never be
married. I wanted to be for the tenth time, but the post was taken,”
said Count Siniavin to the pretty Princess Tcharskaya, who had designs
on him.
Princess Tcharskaya only answered with a smile. She looked at Kitty,
thinking how and when she would stand with Count Siniavin in Kitty’s
place, and how she would remind him then of his joke today.
Shtcherbatsky told the old maid of honor, Madame Nikolaeva, that he
meant to put the crown on Kitty’s chignon for luck.
“She ought not to have worn a chignon,” answered Madame Nikolaeva, who
had long ago made up her mind that if the elderly widower she was
angling for married her, the wedding should be of the simplest. “I
don’t like such grandeur.”
Sergey Ivanovitch was talking to Darya Dmitrievna, jestingly assuring
her that the custom of going away after the wedding was becoming common
because newly married people always felt a little ashamed of
themselves.
“Your brother may feel proud of himself. She’s a marvel of sweetness. I
believe you’re envious.”
“Oh, I’ve got over that, Darya Dmitrievna,” he answered, and a
melancholy and serious expression suddenly came over his face.
Stepan Arkadyevitch was telling his sister-in-law his joke about
divorce.
“The wreath wants setting straight,” she answered, not hearing him.
“What a pity she’s lost her looks so,” Countess Nordston said to Madame
Lvova. “Still he’s not worth her little finger, is he?”
“Oh, I like him so—not because he’s my future _beau-frère_,” answered
Madame Lvova. “And how well he’s behaving! It’s so difficult, too, to
look well in such a position, not to be ridiculous. And he’s not
ridiculous, and not affected; one can see he’s moved.”
“You expected it, I suppose?”
“Almost. She always cared for him.”
“Well, we shall see which of them will step on the rug first. I warned
Kitty.”
“It will make no difference,” said Madame Lvova; “we’re all obedient
wives; it’s in our family.”
“Oh, I stepped on the rug before Vassily on purpose. And you, Dolly?”
Dolly stood beside them; she heard them, but she did not answer. She
was deeply moved. The tears stood in her eyes, and she could not have
spoken without crying. She was rejoicing over Kitty and Levin; going
back in thought to her own wedding, she glanced at the radiant figure
of Stepan Arkadyevitch, forgot all the present, and remembered only her
own innocent love. She recalled not herself only, but all her
women-friends and acquaintances. She thought of them on the one day of
their triumph, when they had stood like Kitty under the wedding crown,
with love and hope and dread in their hearts, renouncing the past, and
stepping forward into the mysterious future. Among the brides that came
back to her memory, she thought too of her darling Anna, of whose
proposed divorce she had just been hearing. And she had stood just as
innocent in orange flowers and bridal veil. And now? “It’s terribly
strange,” she said to herself. It was not merely the sisters, the
women-friends and female relations of the bride who were following
every detail of the ceremony. Women who were quite strangers, mere
spectators, were watching it excitedly, holding their breath, in fear
of losing a single movement or expression of the bride and bridegroom,
and angrily not answering, often not hearing, the remarks of the
callous men, who kept making joking or irrelevant observations.
“Why has she been crying? Is she being married against her will?”
“Against her will to a fine fellow like that? A prince, isn’t he?”
“Is that her sister in the white satin? Just listen how the deacon
booms out, ‘And fearing her husband.’”
“Are the choristers from Tchudovo?”
“No, from the Synod.”
“I asked the footman. He says he’s going to take her home to his
country place at once. Awfully rich, they say. That’s why she’s being
married to him.”
“No, they’re a well-matched pair.”
“I say, Marya Vassilievna, you were making out those fly-away
crinolines were not being worn. Just look at her in the puce dress—an
ambassador’s wife they say she is—how her skirt bounces out from side
to side!”
“What a pretty dear the bride is—like a lamb decked with flowers! Well,
say what you will, we women feel for our sister.”
Such were the comments in the crowd of gazing women who had succeeded
in slipping in at the church doors.
