For the mother there could be no comparison between Vronsky and Levin. The mother disliked in Levin his strange and sharp judgements, his awkwardness in society (caused, as she supposed, by his pride), and his, in her opinion, wild sort of life in the country, busy with cattle and muzhiks; she also very much disliked that he, being in love with her daughter, had visited their house for a month and a half as if waiting for something, spying out, as if he were afraid it would be too great an honour if he should propose, and not understanding that if he visited a house where there was a marriageable daughter, he ought to explain himself. And suddenly, without explanation, he had left. ‘It’s a good thing he’s so unattractive that Kitty didn’t fall in love with him,’ thought the mother.
Vronsky satisfied all the mother’s desires. Very rich, intelligent, well-born, a brilliant military-courtly career, and a charming man. One could wish for nothing better.
At the balls Vronsky openly courted Kitty, danced with her and visited the house, which meant there could be no doubt of the seriousness of his intentions. But, in spite of that, the mother spent the entire winter in terrible worry and agitation.
The old princess herself had married thirty years ago, with her aunt as matchmaker. The fiancé, of whom everything was known beforehand, came, saw the bride, and was seen himself; the matchmaking aunt found out and conveyed the impression made on both sides; the impression was good; then on the appointed day the expected proposal was made to her parents and accepted. Everything happened very easily and simply. At least it seemed so to the princess. But with her own daughters she had experienced how this seemingly ordinary thing - giving away her daughters in marriage - was neither easy nor simple. So many fears had been lived through, so many thoughts thought, so much money spent, so many confrontations with her husband when the older two, Darya and Natalya, were being married! Now, as the youngest one was brought out, she lived through the same fears, the same doubts, and had still greater quarrels with her husband than over the older ones. The old prince, like all fathers, was especially scrupulous about the honour and purity of his daughters; he was unreasonably jealous over them, and especially over Kitty, who was his favourite, and at every step made scenes with his wife for compromising their daughter. The princess had already grown used to it with the first two daughters, but now she felt that the prince’s scrupulousness had more grounds. She saw that much had changed lately in the ways of society, that the duties of a mother had become even more difficult. She saw that girls of Kitty’s age formed some sort of groups, attended some sort of courses,26 freely associated with men, drove around by themselves, many no longer curtsied, and, worse still, they were all firmly convinced that choosing a husband was their own and not their parents’ business. ‘Nowadays girls are not given in marriage as they used to be,’ all these young girls, and even all the old people, thought and said. But how a girl was to be given in marriage nowadays the princess could not find out from anyone. The French custom - for the parents to decide the children’s fate - was not accepted, and was even condemned. The English custom - giving the girl complete freedom - was also not accepted and was impossible in Russian society. The Russian custom of matchmaking was regarded as something outrageous and was laughed at by everyone, the princess included. But how a girl was to get married or be given in marriage, no one knew. Everyone with whom the princess happened to discuss it told her one and the same thing: ‘Good gracious, in our day it’s time to abandon this antiquity. It’s young people who get married, not their parents; that means the young people should be left to arrange it as they can.’ It was fine for those who had no daughters to talk that way; but the princess understood that in making friends her daughter might fall in love, and fall in love with someone who would not want to marry or who was not right as a husband. And however much the princess was assured that in our time young people themselves must settle their fate, she was unable to believe it, as she would have been unable to believe that in anyone’s time the best toys for five-year-old children would be loaded pistols. And therefore the princess worried more about Kitty than she had about her older daughters.
Now her fear was that Vronsky would not limit himself to merely courting her daughter. She saw that Kitty was already in love with him, but she comforted herself with thinking that he was an honest man and therefore would not do such a thing. But along with that she knew how easy it was, with the present-day freedom of behaviour, to turn a girl’s head and, generally, how lightly men looked upon this fault. The week before, Kitty had repeated to her mother her conversation with Vronsky during the mazurka. This conversation had partly set the princess at ease; but she could not be completely at ease. Vronsky had told Kitty that he and his brother were both so used to obeying their mother in all things that they would never dare undertake anything important without consulting her. ‘And now I’m waiting, as for a special happiness, for my mother’s arrival from Petersburg,’ he had said.
Kitty had repeated it without giving any significance to these words. But her mother understood it differently. She knew that the old woman was expected any day, knew that she would be glad of her son’s choice, and found it strange that he would not propose for fear of offending his mother; yet she so much wanted the marriage itself and, most of all, a rest from her anxieties, that she believed it. Painful as it was for the princess to see the unhappiness of her eldest daughter, Dolly, who was preparing to leave her husband, her worry over the deciding of her youngest daughter’s fate consumed all her feelings. Levin’s appearance that same day had added to her trouble. She was afraid that her daughter, who, as it seemed to her, had some feeling for Levin, might refuse Vronsky out of unnecessary honesty, and generally that Levin’s arrival might confuse and delay matters so near conclusion.
‘What about him, did he arrive long ago?’ the princess said of Levin as they returned home.
‘Today, maman.’
‘I only want to say ...’ the princess began, and by her seriously animated face Kitty could guess what the talk would be about.
‘Mama,’ she said, flushing and quickly turning to her, ‘please, please, don’t say anything about it. I know, I know it all.’
She wished for the same thing her mother did, but the motives for her mother’s wish offended her.
‘I only want to say that, having given hopes to one ...’
‘Mama, darling, for God’s sake, don’t speak. It’s so awful to speak of it.’
‘I won’t, I won‘t,’ her mother said, seeing the tears in her daughter’s eyes, ‘but one thing, my dearest: you promised me you wouldn’t have any secrets from me. You won’t?’
‘Never, mama, none,’ Kitty answered, blushing and looking straight into her mother’s face. ‘But I have nothing to tell now. I... I... even if I wanted to, I don’t know what to say or how ... I don’t know ...’