Anna Karenina

It was a clear frosty day. At the entrance stood rows of carriages, sleighs, cabbies, mounted police. Proper folk, their hats gleaming in the sun, swarmed by the gate and along the cleared paths, among little Russian cottages with fretwork eaves and ridges; the old curly-headed birches in the garden, all their branches hung with snow, seemed to be decked out in new festive garments.

He walked down the path towards the skating rink and said to himself: ‘Mustn’t be excited, must keep calm. What are you doing? What’s the matter with you? Quiet, stupid!’ He spoke to his heart. And the more he tried to calm himself, the more breathless he became. An acquaintance went by and called out to him, but Levin did not even recognize who it was. He came to the hills, where there was a clanking of chains towing sledges up and down, the clatter of descending sledges and the sound of merry voices. He walked on a few more steps, and before him opened the skating rink, and at once, among all the skaters, he recognized her.

He knew she was there by the joy and fear that overwhelmed his heart. She stood at the other end of the rink, talking to a lady. There seemed to be nothing very special in her dress, nor in her pose; but for Levin she was as easy to recognize in that crowd as a rose among nettles. Everything was lit up by her. She was the smile that brightened everything around. ‘Can I really step down there on the ice and go over to her?’ he thought. The place where she stood seemed to him unapproachably holy, and there was a moment when he almost went away - he was so filled with awe. Making an effort, he reasoned that all sorts of people were walking near her and that he might have come to skate there himself. He stepped down, trying not to look long at her, as if she were the sun, yet he saw her, like the sun, even without looking.

On that day of the week and at that hour of the day, people of the same circle, all acquaintances, gathered on the ice. Here there were expert skaters who showed off their art, and learners leaning on chairs,¹⁵ moving timidly and clumsily, and young boys, and old people who skated for hygienic purposes. To Levin they all seemed chosen and lucky because they were there, close to her. It seemed that with perfect equanimity the skaters went ahead, came abreast of her, even talked to her, and enjoyed themselves quite independently of her, taking advantage of the excellent ice and good weather.

Nikolai Shcherbatsky, Kitty’s cousin, in a short jacket and narrow trousers, was sitting on a bench with his skates on. Seeing Levin, he called out to him:

‘Ah, the foremost Russian skater! Been here long? The ice is excellent, put your skates on!’

‘I don’t have any skates,’ Levin replied, surprised at this boldness and casualness in her presence and not losing sight of her for a moment, though he was not looking at her. He felt the sun approach him. She was turning a corner, her slender feet at a blunt angle in their high boots, and with evident timidity was skating towards him. Desperately swinging his arms and crouching low, a boy in Russian dress was overtaking her. She skated not quite steadily; taking her hands out of a small muff hanging from a cord, she held them ready and, looking at Levin, whom she had recognized, smiled at him and at her own fear. When she finished the turn, she pushed herself off with a springy little foot and glided right up to Shcherbatsky. Holding on to him and smiling, she nodded to Levin. She was more beautiful than he had imagined her.

When he thought of her, he could vividly picture all of her to himself, especially the loveliness of that small fair head, with its expression of a child’s brightness and kindness, set so easily on her shapely girlish shoulders. In this childlike expression of her face combined with the slender beauty of her figure lay her special loveliness, which he remembered well; but what was always striking in her, like something unexpected, was the look in her eyes - meek, calm and truthful - and especially her smile, which always transported Levin into a magic world where he felt softened and moved to tenderness, as he could remember himself being on rare days in his early childhood.

‘Have you been here long?’ she said, giving him her hand. ‘Thank you,’ she added, as he picked up the handkerchief that had fallen out of her muff.

‘I? Not long, I came yesterday ... today, I mean,’ replied Levin, not quite understanding her question in his excitement. ‘I was going to call on you,’ he said and, remembering at once with what intention he was looking for her, he became embarrassed and blushed. ‘I didn’t know you skated, and skated so well.’

She looked at him attentively, as if wishing to understand the reason for his embarrassment.

‘Your praise is to be valued. There’s a tradition here of you being an excellent skater,’ she said, flicking off with her small, black-gloved hand the needles of hoar-frost that had fallen on her muff.