There are two
main plotlines in Anna Karenina—one involving Anna
and Vronsky, the other involving Levin and Kitty. These two threads
run parallel for most of the novel but occasionally intersect. Where
are these intersections? What purpose do they serve in the overall scheme
of the novel?
Tolstoy explained in a famous letter—in response
to a reviewer who accused the author of not structuring the plot
of Anna Karenina carefully enough—that the Anna
and Levin story lines are the two “vaults” of the novel but that
the intersection or “cornerstone” joining them is not immediately
visible. We must search out this intersection. The moments of the
plot at which the two stories come together are few: Vronsky’s initial
courtship of Kitty is one, and Levin’s meeting with Anna is another.
The latter scene is loaded with importance for us, but the former
occurs before we know how the plot will develop, so it is the more
easily forgotten instance of crossover. But this former scene is
nonetheless of great importance. When we consider what a marriage
between Vronsky and Kitty might have been like, we are forced to
assess the differences between Anna and Kitty as romantic partners
for Vronsky—as well as the differences between Vronsky and Levin
as mates for Kitty. While Kitty is instinctively comfortable with
and sympathetic to Levin, she feels a strong romantic and sensual
pull toward Vronsky. As Tolstoy repeatedly hints that good marriages
are founded not on romance but on trusting companionship, we are
invited to see Vronsky’s rejection of Kitty as a blessing in disguise,
saving her from the deceptive lures of romantic passion. Likewise,
Vronsky’s life with Kitty likely would have been more traditional
and stable, and probably happier—though perhaps less rich and varied—than
his life with Anna. In a life with the somewhat pedestrian Kitty,
Vronsky surely would not have settled in Italy, started painting,
or embarked on his grand hospital building project. It is Anna who
nourishes such ambitions in him. Such “what if” questions, prompted
by Tolstoy’s early but momentary joining of Vronsky and Kitty, encourage
us to compare, analyze, and reflect in the way that a profound novel
of ideas demands.
Though we might
expect Anna and Vronsky’s flight to Italy to be an important turning
point in Anna Karenina, in fact very little takes
place in the Italian section of the novel. Why does Tolstoy bypass
such a potential for drama by making the Italian sojourn so uneventful?
Tolstoy’s decision to send Anna and Vronsky
to Italy on their would-be honeymoon is an intentional attempt to
set us up for disappointment—a disappointment that is crucial for
our understanding of how ill-fated their relationship is. Italy,
associated with romance and passion in Tolstoy’s time as much as
now, figured as a dreamy paradise for lovers in popular love stories
of the time. On one hand, Tolstoy purposely plays on that stereotype
by sending his loving couple there, showing Anna happy in her Italian
palazzo. On the other hand, he plays against the stereotype by presenting
Anna and Vronsky’s Italian experience as curiously empty and uneventful. Indeed,
their stay in Italy is less the grand culmination of their affair than
an extended pause that makes us—and perhaps the lovers, too—wonder
what will come next. They have little to do in Italy besides stroll,
dabble at painting, and buy works of art. There are no fancy dress
balls, officers’ races, or any of the other venues for social interaction
that filled their lives before. The lack is noticeable.
What is missing in Italy, then, is Anna’s and Vronsky’s
integration into society as a couple. Curiously, the very thing
they have yearned to escape—Russian society—is what earlier gave
structure and meaning to their existences. Italy cannot provide
this structure, as Anna and Vronsky do not join Italian society
and do not even seem to meet any Italians—not one Italian is fleshed
out as a character in this section. The couple lives in a social
vacuum, and the emptiness of their experience foreshadows the disappointments
of their later life as outsiders to society.
The sudden
turn toward the broad nationalism and politics of the “Slavic question”
at the end of the novel comes as a stark contrast with the more
family-based, personal focus of the earlier parts of the novel.
Why might Tolstoy end his novel about happiness and the meaning
of life with this thematic twist?
Though Tolstoy was sympathetic to the plight
of Slavic peoples under Turkish rule, he was skeptical of all nationalistic
and patriotic bandwagons. He saw such group movements as based on
a fantasy of solidarity rather than on actual, loving relationships
between humans. He opposed war in general, later inspiring Gandhi
with his pacifism, and wished to convey this sentiment in Anna
Karenina. Though Tolstoy does not explicitly state his
views on the Slavic issue in the novel, we nonetheless get hints
that he is not a full supporter. Levin, who is often Tolstoy’s alter
ego in the novel, opposes the Slavic cause. He complains that the
cause purports to act on behalf of the Russian people when in fact
most common Russians know nothing about it—the cause is largely
a fantasy cooked up by newspapers to boost circulation.
Tolstoy also uses the Slavic question to offer a psychological diagnosis
of why men become militant. When Vronsky and Koznyshev both get
pulled into the cause of war in defense of the southern Slavs, Tolstoy
throws a bit of cold water on their enthusiasm by showing how, in
both men’s lives, political activism may cover up a traumatic personal
loss. Koznyshev endures the devastating realization that his recently
published book, a six-year labor of love, is worthless and unread;
Vronsky, meanwhile, loses Anna, the love of his life. These losses
prompt both men to sign up with the Slavic cause, partly as a means
of distracting themselves. In this view of political activism and
warfare as substitutes for fulfillment in private life, Tolstoy
shows us the illusory side of government and statecraft. What Vronsky
and Koznyshev both mistakenly aim for in their political activism
is what Levin succeeds in finding in his everyday life—a sense of
belonging to something larger than oneself. Koznyshev invents a
fantasy of the Slavic people in order to assert his ties to the
cause, but it is as mentally fabricated as his earlier research
was—not real and experienced as Levin’s ties with Kitty, Mitya,
and his peasants are. The Slavic cause at the end of the novel reminds
us that everyone needs connections with others, but some of us invent
false connections rather than seek out real ones.