Anna Karenina fanfic: Polly Pyotrovna
Yes, I can start my World Lit II paper a year before it's due, ok? It's FANFIC. *puts on unattractive Tolstoy hat* Title is dubious. Name of female protagonist hard to decide upon. Male protagonist: Mitya (Levin). Probably no spoilers even if you haven't finished the book.
Anyway, tell me what you think. And also correctmyfrenchokthnxbi.
Dmitri Konstantinovich Levin put a gloved hand on the ledge of the carriage window and leaned his head eagerly out of the space. The cold air reddened the tips of his ears and nose, the snow whipped past his face and stung his eyes. He put a hand on his hat to push it down, but did not let it obscure his view of the street.
The houses were larger and more European in St. Petersburg, with sweeping alcoves and tall thin windows. A set of stone steps led up to each door, and metal railings separated one from the other. Dmitri Konstantinovich watched each one pass with furious interest, taking in every detail of the snow-covered architecture. He was a very young man, only twenty-seven next year, and to be free from his family for so long and in such a facetious fashion was exhilarating for him.
The house he was looking for suddenly came into view.
A portly moustached man was waiting for him on the doorstep. He wore no thick winter coat, but stood expectantly in his indoor clothes, showing no sign of cold. His dark hair was speckled white with snowflakes.
Levin laughed aloud at the sight of him and pushed open the carriage door, leaving his bags and running out into the snow to meet his friend, who descended the tall steps with an undignified toddle.
“Dmitri Konstantinovich!” cried the man, clasping Levin’s hand in a bone-crushing, double-handed grip, his hands warm from being inside, and for a moment. Levin’s hands were free of chill. “How very, very wonderful it is to see you at last!”
“And you also, Grigoriy Stepanovich,” Dmitri laughed. “I fear you had diminished in my memory, mon cousin. You seem now even larger than life.”
Grigoriy Stepanovich roared with laughter and clapped his cousin on the back, before asking the carriage driver to bring Levin’s bags into the house. “We thought you weren’t coming,” said Grigoriy Stepanovich as he led Levin back to the house.
“It’s been a tough winter,” Levin told him, following him up the stairs to the doorstep. The door swung to and fro on its hinges, in the frosty wind. “My father wanted me to stay in Pokrovskoe a little longer.”
“Of course, it’s just like mon oncle,” said Grigoriy Stepanovich. “You obeyed him, of course.”
“You know me, Grisha,” said Levin, using the affectionate form of his name.
“And how is your brother, Vladimir?” Grisha enquired.
“Sickly still,” said Levin. “But we’ll talk more of it later.”
“Grigoriy Oblonsky!” hailed a voice from one of the upper rooms as they entered the ornately decorated front hall. “Your constant fiddling with the door has blown a breeze though the whole house. If the baby falls ill it shall be your fault, Grigoriy Oblonsky!” A woman as heavily built as Grigoriy Stepanovich appeared at the curve of the spiral staircase. Her long dark hair was escaping from the knot at the base of her neck, and hung in curling fronds around her lovely face. “Mitya!” she exclaimed in delight when she saw Levin, and her angry expression transformed into one of joy. She hurried down the stairs and flung her arms around Levin’s neck.
“Darling Sasha,” said Levin. He hugged her affectionately, breathing in the crisp warm smell of her hair, and let her step back so he could observe her in her full magnificence. “Motherhood has changed you,” he told her softly.
“Nonsense,” declared Grigoriy Stepanovich. “She’s not a bit different than the day you introduced her to me.”
“Un jour où mon coeur regrettera toujours,”1 said Mitya, with a charming smile. His joy at seeing his childhood friend and first love was enough to warm his frozen skin, as a warm wave of happiness swept through his blood and through his whole body. The Levins and the parents of Alexandra Leonidovna were good friends, and lived quite near to each other in Pokrovskoe. Mitya and Sasha had known each other since they were children, and been in love for nearly as long as that, but there was something more in her now, a soft radiance that shone from her full cheeks. Dmitri Konstantinovich did not begrudge Sasha and Grisha their happiness, or hate himself for bringing them together, as he had when he had sulked for hours in the corner at their wedding ball. That day was one of the saddest of his life. His heart had felt as though it would simply fall apart at any moment. But then his beloved Sasha had danced with him, and told him in great detail how happy she was and how grateful to Mitya for making it all possible, and Mitya’s anger and shame drained away and left him with a sad sense of loss, but also a lingering reflection of Sasha’s own joy, and all of a sudden this was enough for him.
1A day my heart will regret always. (I hope)
Also, two of my friends were in bloody London yesterday. Please don't let this spread, pleasepleaseplease..
Anyway, tell me what you think. And also correctmyfrenchokthnxbi.
Dmitri Konstantinovich Levin put a gloved hand on the ledge of the carriage window and leaned his head eagerly out of the space. The cold air reddened the tips of his ears and nose, the snow whipped past his face and stung his eyes. He put a hand on his hat to push it down, but did not let it obscure his view of the street.
The houses were larger and more European in St. Petersburg, with sweeping alcoves and tall thin windows. A set of stone steps led up to each door, and metal railings separated one from the other. Dmitri Konstantinovich watched each one pass with furious interest, taking in every detail of the snow-covered architecture. He was a very young man, only twenty-seven next year, and to be free from his family for so long and in such a facetious fashion was exhilarating for him.
The house he was looking for suddenly came into view.
A portly moustached man was waiting for him on the doorstep. He wore no thick winter coat, but stood expectantly in his indoor clothes, showing no sign of cold. His dark hair was speckled white with snowflakes.
Levin laughed aloud at the sight of him and pushed open the carriage door, leaving his bags and running out into the snow to meet his friend, who descended the tall steps with an undignified toddle.
“Dmitri Konstantinovich!” cried the man, clasping Levin’s hand in a bone-crushing, double-handed grip, his hands warm from being inside, and for a moment. Levin’s hands were free of chill. “How very, very wonderful it is to see you at last!”
“And you also, Grigoriy Stepanovich,” Dmitri laughed. “I fear you had diminished in my memory, mon cousin. You seem now even larger than life.”
Grigoriy Stepanovich roared with laughter and clapped his cousin on the back, before asking the carriage driver to bring Levin’s bags into the house. “We thought you weren’t coming,” said Grigoriy Stepanovich as he led Levin back to the house.
“It’s been a tough winter,” Levin told him, following him up the stairs to the doorstep. The door swung to and fro on its hinges, in the frosty wind. “My father wanted me to stay in Pokrovskoe a little longer.”
“Of course, it’s just like mon oncle,” said Grigoriy Stepanovich. “You obeyed him, of course.”
“You know me, Grisha,” said Levin, using the affectionate form of his name.
“And how is your brother, Vladimir?” Grisha enquired.
“Sickly still,” said Levin. “But we’ll talk more of it later.”
“Grigoriy Oblonsky!” hailed a voice from one of the upper rooms as they entered the ornately decorated front hall. “Your constant fiddling with the door has blown a breeze though the whole house. If the baby falls ill it shall be your fault, Grigoriy Oblonsky!” A woman as heavily built as Grigoriy Stepanovich appeared at the curve of the spiral staircase. Her long dark hair was escaping from the knot at the base of her neck, and hung in curling fronds around her lovely face. “Mitya!” she exclaimed in delight when she saw Levin, and her angry expression transformed into one of joy. She hurried down the stairs and flung her arms around Levin’s neck.
“Darling Sasha,” said Levin. He hugged her affectionately, breathing in the crisp warm smell of her hair, and let her step back so he could observe her in her full magnificence. “Motherhood has changed you,” he told her softly.
“Nonsense,” declared Grigoriy Stepanovich. “She’s not a bit different than the day you introduced her to me.”
“Un jour où mon coeur regrettera toujours,”1 said Mitya, with a charming smile. His joy at seeing his childhood friend and first love was enough to warm his frozen skin, as a warm wave of happiness swept through his blood and through his whole body. The Levins and the parents of Alexandra Leonidovna were good friends, and lived quite near to each other in Pokrovskoe. Mitya and Sasha had known each other since they were children, and been in love for nearly as long as that, but there was something more in her now, a soft radiance that shone from her full cheeks. Dmitri Konstantinovich did not begrudge Sasha and Grisha their happiness, or hate himself for bringing them together, as he had when he had sulked for hours in the corner at their wedding ball. That day was one of the saddest of his life. His heart had felt as though it would simply fall apart at any moment. But then his beloved Sasha had danced with him, and told him in great detail how happy she was and how grateful to Mitya for making it all possible, and Mitya’s anger and shame drained away and left him with a sad sense of loss, but also a lingering reflection of Sasha’s own joy, and all of a sudden this was enough for him.
1A day my heart will regret always. (I hope)
Also, two of my friends were in bloody London yesterday. Please don't let this spread, pleasepleaseplease..