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FORTY-FIVE

Chapter 14

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WHEN Kitty had left and Levin remained alone he felt so restless without her and so impatient to live more and more quickly through the hours till morning when he would see her again and be united to her for good, that he dreaded like death the fourteen hours he would have to spend without her. In order not to be alone and to deceive time, he needed to be with and to talk to somebody. Oblonsky would have been the pleasantest companion for him now, but he was going to an evening party as he said (really to the ballet). Levin only had time to tell him he was happy and fond of him and would never, never forget what he had done for him. Oblonsky’s look and smile showed Levin that he understood him rightly.
‘Then it’s not time to die yet?’ asked Oblonsky with feeling, pressing Levin’s hand.
‘N-n-n-oo!’ said Levin.
Dolly too, when saying good-bye to him, spoke as if congratulating him, saying: ‘I am so glad you and Kitty have met again. We must value old friendship.’ Levin did not like her remark. She did not understand how high and unattainable for her all this was, and she should not have dared to refer to it. Levin took leave of them but, not to remain alone, he fastened on to his brother.
‘Where are you going?’
‘To a Town Council meeting.’
‘Well, I’ll come with you. May I?’
‘Why not? Let us go,’ answered Koznyshev, smiling. ‘What has happened to you to-day?’
‘To me? Happiness is with me,’ said Levin, letting down the window of the carriage in which they were driving. ‘You don’t mind? It is so stuffy here. Happiness is with me. Why have you never got married?’
Koznyshev smiled.
‘I am very glad, she seems a fine gi . . .’ he began.
‘Don’t, don’t, don’t speak!’ exclaimed Levin, seizing the collar of his brother’s fur-coat and lapping it over his face. ‘She is a fine girl’ were words so ordinary, so insignificant, so inappropriate to his feelings.
Koznyshev laughed merrily, a thing he rarely did.
‘Anyhow I may say I am very glad.’
‘You may say that to-morrow, to-morrow, but nothing more! Nothing, nothing, silence . . .’ said Levin, and again wrapping the collar round his brother’s face he added: ‘I am very fond of you! Will they really let me in to the meeting?’
‘Of course you can come.’
‘What are you speaking on to-night?’ asked Levin not ceasing to smile.
They arrived at the Council, and Levin listened to the secretary haltingly reading an official report which he evidently did not understand himself, but from his face Levin saw what a nice, kind, and splendid fellow he was. That was plain from the confused and embarrassed manner in which he read the report. Then followed the discussion. They were debating the grant of some money and the laying of some pipes, and Koznyshev spoke about something for a long time in a triumphant tone and stung two of the members; another member, having noted something on a bit of paper, started timidly, but went on to answer him very venomously and neatly. And then Sviyazhsky (he too was there) also said something very finely and nobly. Levin listened to them and clearly saw that neither the sums of money nor the pipes had any real existence, there was nothing of the kind, and he saw also that they were not at all angry but were all very kind and estimable fellows, and that it was all very good and pleasant. They were doing no one any harm, and everybody was pleased. What seemed remarkable to Levin was that they were all perfectly transparent to him that day, and that by means of little signs which he had never noticed before he recognized the soul of each and clearly saw that they were all kind and, in particular, were all extremely fond of him. That was quite evident from the way they spoke to him, and the tenderness and affection with which they all, even strangers, looked at him.
‘Well, are you contented?’ asked Koznyshev.
‘Quite. I never thought it would be so interesting. Fine! splendid!’
Sviyazhsky came up and asked Levin to come home with him and have some tea. Levin could not at all think or remember why he had ever felt dissatisfied with Sviyazhsky or what he had thought lacking in him. He was an intelligent and remarkably kind fellow.
‘I shall be very pleased,’ said Levin, and asked about Sviyazhsky’s wife and sister-in-law. And by a strange connection of ideas, as that sister-in-law was connected in his fancy with the idea of marriage, it appeared to him that he could not tell anybody of his happiness so appropriately as Sviyazhsky’s wife and sister-in-law, and he was very glad to go and see them.
Sviyazhsky questioned him about his affairs in the country, as usual disbelieving in the possibility of devising anything that had not already been discovered in Western Europe: but now Levin did not consider this at all unpleasant. On the contrary he felt that Sviyazhsky was right, and that the whole business was insignificant, and he noticed the wonderful gentleness and delicacy with which Sviyazhsky avoided saying that he was right. The ladies were especially nice; it seemed to Levin that they already knew all about it and sympathized with him but did not mention it out of delicacy. He remained at the house two or three hours, talking about different matters, but thinking only of the one thing that filled his soul and not noticing that they were dreadfully weary of him and ought long ago to have been in bed. Sviyazhsky, yawning, showed him to the hall and wondered at the strange state his friend was in. It was past one. Levin returned to the hotel and the thought of how with his impatience he would spend the remaining ten hours frightened him. The attendant on duty lighted his candle and was going away, but Levin stopped him. Egor, the attendant, of whom Levin had taken no notice heretofore, turned out to be a very intelligent, good, and above all very kind man.
‘I say, Egor, don’t you find it difficult to keep awake?’
‘What’s one to do? Our work is of that sort. It is easier in a gentleman’s house, but one earns more here.’
It turned out that Egor had a family, three boys and a girl who was a seamstress and whom he wanted to marry to an assistant in a harness business.
Levin took this opportunity to express to Egor his opinion that in marriage the chief thing is — love, and that when there is love there will always be happiness, because happiness lies always within oneself.
Egor listened very attentively and evidently quite understood Levin, but in confirmation of it remarked, quite unexpectedly to Levin, that when he was in the service of nice people he was always satisfied with his masters and that he was satisfied with his present master although he was a Frenchman.
‘A wonderfully kind man!’ thought Levin.
‘And you, Egor, when you married, did you love your wife?’
‘How can one help it?’ answered Egor.
And Levin saw that Egor too was in an exultant state and wished to tell him all his most intimate feelings.
‘My life too was very curious. From a child I . . .’ he began with shining eyes, evidently infected by Levin’s exultation as men get infected by others’ yawning.
But at that moment a bell rang; Egor went away and Levin remained alone. He had scarcely eaten anything at dinner and had refused both tea and supper at Sviyazhsky’s, but could not think of eating. He had not slept the night before but could not think of sleep either. The room was cool, but he felt suffocated with heat. He opened the little window [the fortochka, or small inlet window customary in Russia, which allows fresh air to be let into the room in winter without cooling it too much] and sat down on a table in front of it. Beyond a snow-covered roof he could see a gilt fretwork cross adorned with chains on the dome of a church and above it the three-cornered constellation of the Charioteer with the bright yellow star Capella. He looked now at the cross, now at the star, and inhaled the fresh frosty air which flowed with a regular current into the room, following, as in a dream, the images and memories that arose in his fancy. Towards four o’clock he heard steps in the corridor and looked out. It was the gambler Myaskin whom he knew, returning from the club. He passed dejectedly, frowning and coughing. ‘Poor unfortunate fellow!’ thought Levin, and tears of affection and pity for the man filled his eyes. He wished to speak to him and comfort him, but recollecting that he had nothing over his shirt he changed his mind and again sat down in front of the little window to bathe in the cold air and to gaze at that beautifully-shaped silent cross, full of meaning for him, and at the ascending bright yellow star. When it was past six o’clock he began to hear the floor-polishers, and the church bell ringing for service, and felt he was beginning to grow cold. He shut the little window, washed, dressed, and went out into the street.

Chapter 15

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THE streets were still empty. Levin went to the Shcherbatskys’ house. The front door was locked, everybody was still sleeping. He went back to his room in the hotel and ordered coffee. The day-waiter, not Egor this time, brought it to him. Levin wished to have a talk with him, but the bell rang and the waiter went away. Levin tried to drink a little coffee, and put a piece of roll into his mouth, but his mouth could do nothing with it. He took the piece out of his mouth, put on his overcoat and went out to walk about again. It was past nine when he reached the Shcherbatskys’ porch a second time. The inmates of the house were only just up, and the cook was going out to buy provisions. It would be necessary to live through another two hours at least.
All that night and morning Levin had lived quite unconsciously, and felt quite outside the conditions of material existence. He had not eaten for a whole day, had not slept for two nights, had spent several hours half-dressed and exposed to the frost, yet he felt not only fresher and better than ever before, but quite independent of his body: he moved without his muscles making any effort, and felt capable of anything. He was sure that he could fly upwards or knock down the corner of a house, were it necessary. He spent the rest of the time walking about the street, looking at his watch, and gazing around.
And what he then saw he never saw again. Two children going to school, some pigeons that flew down from the roof, and a few loaves put outside a baker’s window by an invisible hand touched him particularly. These loaves, the pigeons, and the two boys seemed creatures not of this earth. It all happened at the same time; one of the boys ran after a pigeon and looked smilingly up at Levin; the pigeon flapped its wings and fluttered up, glittering in the sunshine amid the snowdust that trembled in the air; from the window came the scent of fresh-baked bread and the loaves were put out. All these things were so unusually beautiful that Levin laughed and cried with joy. After a long round, through the Gazetny Street and the Kislovka, he returned to the hotel, put his watch in front of him, and sat down waiting till it should be twelve. In the next room they were saying something about machines and fraud, and coughing as people do of a morning. They did not realize that the watch hand was drawing nearer to twelve. The hand reached twelve. Levin went out into the porch. The izvoshchiks [cabdrivers] evidently knew all about it. With joyful faces they surrounded Levin, disputing among themselves, and offering him their services. Trying not to offend the others, and promising to let them too drive him later on, he hired one and told him to drive to the Shcherbatskys’. The izvoshchik was charming with the white band of his shirt showing from under his coat and clinging closely to his full, red, sturdy neck. That izvoshchik’s sledge was high and comfortable and never after did Levin drive in one like it, and the horse was a good one too and tried its best to trot fast, but did not seem to move. The izvoshchik knew the Shcherbatskys’ house, and rounding his elbows in a manner specially respectful to his fare, called ‘Whoa!’ and stopped at the porch. The Shcherbatskys’ hall-porter certainly knew everything. That was evident from the smile in his eyes and the tone in which he said:
‘It’s long since you were here last, Constantine Dmitrich!’
Not only did he know everything, but he evidently rejoiced and made efforts to hide his joy. Glancing into his kind old eyes, Levin felt something new even in his happiness.
‘Are they up?’
‘Come in, sir! Won’t you leave it here?’ he said, when Levin turned back for his cap. That meant something.
‘Whom shall I announce you to?’ asked the footman.
The footman was young, of the new-fashioned kind, and a dandy, but a very kind and good fellow, and he too understood it all.
‘The Prince . . . The Princess . . . The young lady . . .’ said Levin.
The first person he met was Mlle Linon. She was passing through the dancing-hall and her curls and her face shone. He had scarcely begun to speak to her when he heard the rustle of a dress outside the door, his eyes no longer saw Mlle Linon, and the joyful terror of the nearness of his happiness seized him. Mlle Linon hurriedly left him and went toward the other door. As soon as she had gone out he heard the sound of very, very rapid light steps on the parquet floor, and his joy, his life, his own self, the best in himself, that which he had sought and yearned for so long, advanced very, very rapidly toward him. She did not walk but was borne toward him by some invisible force.
He saw nothing but her clear, true eyes, frightened by the same joy of love which filled his own heart. Those eyes beamed nearer to him, dazzling him with their glow of love. She stopped so close that she touched him. Her arms rose and her hands dropped on his shoulders.
She had done everything she could — she had run up to him and given herself entirely, shyly, and joyfully. He put his arms round her and pressed his lips to her mouth that was waiting for his kiss.
She too had not slept all night and had waited for him the whole morning.
Her mother and father had definitely given their consent and were happy in her happiness. She had waited for him. She had wished to be the first to announce to him his and her joy. She had prepared herself to meet him alone, and had rejoiced at the idea, yet had felt timid and bashful and had not known what she would do. She had heard his step and his voice and had waited behind the door for Mlle Linon to go. Mlle Linon had gone away. Without thinking or asking herself what next, she had come to him and acted as she had.
‘Come to Mama!’ she said, taking him by the hand. For some time he could not say anything, not so much because he feared that words might spoil the loftiness of his feelings, as because every time he wished to speak he felt that, instead of words, tears of joy would come. He took her hand and kissed it.
‘Can it be true?’ he said at last in a smothered voice. ‘Dear, I cannot believe that you love me.’
She smiled at the word ‘dear’, and at the timid look he gave her.
‘Yes!’ she said significantly and slowly. ‘I am so happy!’
Without letting go of his hand, she entered the drawing-room. The Princess, on seeing them, breathed quickly and immediately burst into tears, then she at once laughed and ran up to them with energy such as Levin never expected from her, and putting her arms round his head kissed him and wetted his cheeks with her tears.
‘Then it’s all finished! I am so glad. Love her. I am so glad . . . Kitty!’
‘Well, you’ve settled it quickly!’ said the old Prince, trying to be indifferent; but Levin noticed that his eyes were moist when he addressed him. ‘I have long, I have always wished it!’ said the old Prince, taking Levin’s hand and drawing him nearer. ‘Even at the time when this scatterbrain intended . . .’
‘Papa!’ exclaimed Kitty and closed his mouth with her hands.
‘Well, well, I won’t!’ he said. ‘I am very, very . . . plea . . . Oh, how stupid I am!’
He embraced Kitty, kissed her face, her hand, then her face again, and made the sign of the cross over her.
And Levin was seized with a new feeling of affection for this man who had been strange to him before, when he saw how Kitty long and tenderly kissed his fleshy hand.

Chapter 16

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THE Princess sat in her armchair silently smiling, and the Prince seated himself beside her. Kitty stood close to her father’s chair, still holding his hand. No one spoke.
The Princess was the first to break the silence and bring all their thoughts and feelings back to the practical side of life, and for the first moments this seemed strange and even painful to them all.
‘When is it to be? There is the betrothal, and cards must be sent out. And when is the wedding to be? What do you think, Alexander?’
‘Here he is,’ said the old Prince, pointing to Levin. ‘He is the principal person concerned.’
‘When?’ said Levin, blushing. ‘To-morrow! If you ask me — the betrothal to-day and the wedding to-morrow!’
‘Oh, don’t, mon cher! What nonsense!’
‘Well then, next week.’
‘He seems quite mad.’
‘Why not?’
‘What an idea!’ said the mother with a pleased smile at his haste. ‘And the trousseau?’
‘Is it possible that there must be a trousseau and all that sort of thing?’ Levin thought, horror-struck. ‘However. . . . As if a trousseau and a betrothal ceremony and all that could spoil my happiness! Nothing can spoil it!’ He looked up at Kitty and noticed that the thought of a trousseau did not in the least upset her; so he thought, ‘It is necessary, evidently.’
‘Well, you see, I don’t know at all; I only expressed my wish,’ he said, to excuse himself.
‘Then we will decide. We can have the betrothal, and send out the cards at once. That will be all right.’
The Princess went up to her husband, kissed him and was about to go away, but he stopped her, embraced her, and tenderly, like a young lover, kissed her several times, with a smile. The old couple seemed to have become confused for the moment, and not to know whether it was they who were again in love or only their daughter. When they had gone Levin came up to his betrothed and took her hand. He had now mastered himself and was able to speak, and there was much he had to say to her; but what he said was not at all what he had intended.
‘How well I knew it would happen! I never dared hope, yet in my soul I was always certain,’ said he. ‘I believe it was predestined.’
‘And I,’ she said. ‘Even when . . .’ she stopped, and again went on, her truthful eyes looking into his face resolutely, ‘even when I drove my happiness from me I always loved you only, but I was carried away. I must ask you: can you forget it?’
‘Perhaps it was all for the best. You have much to forgive me. I must tell you. . . .’
He referred to one of the things he had decided to tell her. He meant to confess, from the first, about two matters: that he was not as pure as she, and that he was an agnostic. It was painful but he thought he ought to tell her both these things.
‘No, not now, later!’ he said.
‘All right, later; but certainly tell me! I am afraid of nothing. I must know everything. Now it’s settled. . . .’
He finished the sentence. ‘It is settled that you will have me, whatever I may be. . . . You will not reject me. . . . Yes?’
‘Yes, yes!’