CHAPTER III
A throng of people, principally women, surrounded the church, brilliantly lighted for the wedding; those who could not get inside were pushing up around the windows and elbowing one another as they strove to look through the gratings.
Already more than twenty carriages stood in a line in the street, under the supervision of policemen. A police officer stood at the entrance in brilliant uniform, unmindful of the cold. Carriages kept driving up and departing; now ladies in full dress, holding up their trains; now men taking off their hats, or képis. In the church itself both chandeliers and all the candles before the images were already burning. The golden gleam on the red background of the ikonostas, and the gilded chasing of the ikons, and the silver of the candelabra and of the censers, and the flaggings of the floor, and the tapestries and the banners suspended in the choir and the steps of the pulpit, and the old dingy missals, and the priestly robes, were all flooded with light.
On the right-hand side of the warm church, amid the brave array of dress-coats, uniforms, and white neck-ties, and satin, silk, and velvet robes; of coiffures, flowers, and bare necks and arms, and long gloves, there was a constant flow of restrained but lively conversation, which echoed strangely beneath the high, vaulted roof.
Whenever the door opened with a plaintive creak the murmur ceased, and every one turned around, hoping at last to see the bridal pair. But the door had already opened more than ten times, and each time it proved to be some belated guest, or guests, admitted among the number of the friends on the right, or some spectator who had been clever enough to deceive or elude the police officer, and sat down among the strangers on the left.
The friends and strangers had passed through every phase of waiting; at first they supposed that the bride and bridegroom would be there any minute, and did not attach any importance to the delay; then they began to look around at the door more and more frequently, wondering what could have happened; at last the delay began to be awkward, and the relatives and invited guests tried to assume an air of indifference, as if they were absorbed in their conversation.
The archdeacon, as if to let people know that his time was precious, every now and then gave an impatient cough, which made the windows rattle; in the choir the singers, tired of waiting, could be heard, now trying their voices, and now blowing their noses; the priest kept sending, now a sacristan, now a deacon, to find out if the bridegroom was coming, and appeared himself more and more frequently at the side doors in his lilac cassock with its embroidered sash.
Finally a lady looked at her watch, and said to the one sitting next her, "This is very strange!" And immediately all the invited guests began to express their surprise and discontent aloud. One of the shafers, or best men, went to see what had happened.
During ail this time Kitty, in her white dress, long veil, and wreath of orange blossoms, was standing in the "hall" of the Shcherbatsky mansion with her sister, Madame Lvova, and her nuptial godmother,[1] looking out of the window, and had been waiting for half an hour for the shafer to announce the bridegroom's arrival at the church.
Levin, meanwhile, in black trousers, but without either coat or waistcoat, was walking up and down his room at the hotel, opening the door every minute to look out into the corridor. But in the corridor nothing like what he wanted was to be seen, and, wringing his hands in despair, he would pour forth his complaints to Stepan Arkadyevitch, who was calmly smoking.
"Did you ever see a man in such a horribly absurd situation?"
"Yes, abominable!" said Stepan Arkadyevitch, with his tranquil smile. "But be calm; they will have it here very soon."
"No, hang it!" said Levin, with restrained fury, "And these idiotic open waistcoats. Absolutely useless!" he added, looking at his tumbled shirt-bosom. "And what if my trunks have already gone to the railway station?" he exclaimed in despair.
"Then you can wear mine."
"I might have done that in the first place."
"Don't be ridiculous .... wait; it is sure to come all right."
The fact was that when Levin began to dress, Kuzma, his old servant, was supposed to have taken out his dress-coat, his waistcoat, and all that was necessary.
"But the shirt!" cried Levin.
"You have your shirt on," replied Kuzma, with an innocent smile.
Kuzma had not thought to provide a clean shirt, and, having received his orders to pack everything up and take them to the Shcherbatskys' house, from which the young couple was to start away that same evening, he had done so, leaving out only his dress-suit. The one that Levin had worn all day was tumbled, and unfit to wear with his open waistcoat; it would take too long to send to the Shcherbatskys'. They sent out to buy one; the lackey returned empty-handed—everything was shut up: it was Sunday. A shirt was brought from Stepan Arkadyevitch' s house—it was ridiculously broad and short; at last, in despair, he had to send to the Shcherbatskys' to have his trunks opened. So, while the people were waiting in the church, the unfortunate groom, like a wild beast in a cage, was ramping with despair up and down his room, looking out into the corridor, and in his horror and despair imagining what Kitty might be thinking all this time.
Finally the guilty Kuzma rushed into the room all out of breath, with the shirt in his hand.
"I got there just in time, as they were carrying off the trunks!" he exclaimed.
In three minutes Levin rushed through the corridor, without daring to look at his watch, for fear of increasing his agony of mind.
"You can't change anything," said Stepan Arkadyevitch, with a smile, following leisurely. "I told you it would come out all right."
- ↑ Posazhonaya mat'.