to myself again; and who did it? Anna saved me. And here I am living on.
The children are growing up, my husband has come back to his family, and
feels his fault, is growing purer, better, and I live on…. I have forgiven it,
and you ought to forgive!”
Alexey Alexandrovitch heard her, but her words had no effect on him
now. All the hatred of that day when he had resolved on a divorce had
sprung up again in his soul. He shook himself, and said in a shrill, loud
voice:
“Forgive I cannot, and do not wish to, and I regard it as wrong. I have
done everything for this woman, and she has trodden it all in the mud to
which she is akin. I am not a spiteful man, I have never hated anyone, but I
hate her with my whole soul, and I cannot even forgive her, because I hate
her too much for all the wrong she has done me!” he said, with tones of
hatred in his voice.
“Love those that hate you….” Darya Alexandrovna whispered timorously.
Alexey Alexandrovitch smiled contemptuously. That he knew long ago,
but it could not be applied to his case.
“Love those that hate you, but to love those one hates is impossible.
Forgive me for having troubled you. Everyone has enough to bear in his
own grief!” And regaining his self-possession, Alexey Alexandrovitch
quietly took leave and went away.
Chapter 13
When they rose from table, Levin would have liked to follow Kitty into
the drawing-room; but he was afraid she might dislike this, as too obviously
paying her attention. He remained in the little ring of men, taking part in the
general conversation, and without looking at Kitty, he was aware of her
movements, her looks, and the place where she was in the drawing-room.
He did at once, and without the smallest effort, keep the promise he had
made her—always to think well of all men, and to like everyone always.
The conversation fell on the village commune, in which Pestsov saw a sort
of special principle, called by him the “choral” principle. Levin did not
agree with Pestsov, nor with his brother, who had a special attitude of his
own, both admitting and not admitting the significance of the Russian
commune. But he talked to them, simply trying to reconcile and soften their
differences. He was not in the least interested in what he said himself, and
even less so in what they said; all he wanted was that they and everyone
should be happy and contented. He knew now the one thing of importance;
and that one thing was at first there, in the drawing-room, and then began
moving across and came to a standstill at the door. Without turning round
he felt the eyes fixed on him, and the smile, and he could not help turning
round. She was standing in the doorway with Shtcherbatsky, looking at him.
“I thought you were going towards the piano,” said he, going up to her.
“That’s something I miss in the country—music.”
“No; we only came to fetch you and thank you,” she said, rewarding him
with a smile that was like a gift, “for coming. What do they want to argue
for? No one ever convinces anyone, you know.”
“Yes; that’s true,” said Levin; “it generally happens that one argues
warmly simply because one can’t make out what one’s opponent wants to
prove.”
Levin had often noticed in discussions between the most intelligent
people that after enormous efforts, and an enormous expenditure of logical
subtleties and words, the disputants finally arrived at being aware that what
they had so long been struggling to prove to one another had long ago, from
the beginning of the argument, been known to both, but that they liked
different things, and would not define what they liked for fear of its being
attacked. He had often had the experience of suddenly in a discussion
grasping what it was his opponent liked and at once liking it too, and
immediately he found himself agreeing, and then all arguments fell away as
useless. Sometimes, too, he had experienced the opposite, expressing at last
what he liked himself, which he was devising arguments to defend, and,
chancing to express it well and genuinely, he had found his opponent at
once agreeing and ceasing to dispute his position. He tried to say this.
She knitted her brow, trying to understand. But directly he began to
illustrate his meaning, she understood at once.
“I know: one must find out what he is arguing for, what is precious to
him, then one can….”
She had completely guessed and expressed his badly expressed idea.
Levin smiled joyfully; he was struck by this transition from the confused,
verbose discussion with Pestsov and his brother to this laconic, clear,
almost wordless communication of the most complex ideas.
Shtcherbatsky moved away from them, and Kitty, going up to a card-
table, sat down, and, taking up the chalk, began drawing diverging circles
over the new green cloth.
They began again on the subject that had been started at dinner—the
liberty and occupations of women. Levin was of the opinion of Darya
Alexandrovna that a girl who did not marry should find a woman’s duties in
a family. He supported this view by the fact that no family can get on
without women to help; that in every family, poor or rich, there are and
must be nurses, either relations or hired.
“No,” said Kitty, blushing, but looking at him all the more boldly with
her truthful eyes; “a girl may be so circumstanced that she cannot live in the
family without humiliation, while she herself….”
At the hint he understood her.
“Oh, yes,” he said. “Yes, yes, yes—you’re right; you’re right!”
And he saw all that Pestsov had been maintaining at dinner of the liberty
of woman, simply from getting a glimpse of the terror of an old maid’s
existence and its humiliation in Kitty’s heart; and loving her, he felt that
terror and humiliation, and at once gave up his arguments.
A silence followed. She was still drawing with the chalk on the table. Her
eyes were shining with a soft light. Under the influence of her mood he felt
in all his being a continually growing tension of happiness.
“Ah! I’ve scribbled all over the table!” she said, and, laying down the
chalk, she made a movement as though to get up.
“What! shall I be left alone—without her?” he thought with horror, and
he took the chalk. “Wait a minute,” he said, sitting down to the table. “I’ve
long wanted to ask you one thing.”
He looked straight into her caressing, though frightened eyes.
“Please, ask it.”
“Here,” he said; and he wrote the initial letters, w, y, t, m, i, c, n, b, d, t, m,
n, o, t. These letters meant, “When you told me it could never be, did that
mean never, or then?” There seemed no likelihood that she could make out
this complicated sentence; but he looked at her as though his life depended
on her understanding the words. She glanced at him seriously, then leaned
her puckered brow on her hands and began to read. Once or twice she stole
a look at him, as though asking him, “Is it what I think?”
“I understand,” she said, flushing a little.
“What is this word?” he said, pointing to the n that stood for never.
“It means never,” she said; “but that’s not true!”
He quickly rubbed out what he had written, gave her the chalk, and stood
up. She wrote, t, i, c, n, a, d.
Dolly was completely comforted in the depression caused by her
conversation with Alexey Alexandrovitch when she caught sight of the two
figures: Kitty with the chalk in her hand, with a shy and happy smile
looking upwards at Levin, and his handsome figure bending over the table
with glowing eyes fastened one minute on the table and the next on her. He
was suddenly radiant: he had understood. It meant, “Then I could not
answer differently.”
He glanced at her questioningly, timidly.
“Only then?”
“Yes,” her smile answered.
“And n… and now?” he asked.
“Well, read this. I’ll tell you what I should like—should like so much!”
she wrote the initial letters, i, y, c, f, a, f, w, h. This meant, “If you could
forget and forgive what happened.”
He snatched the chalk with nervous, trembling fingers, and breaking it,
wrote the initial letters of the following phrase, “I have nothing to forget
and to forgive; I have never ceased to love you.”
She glanced at him with a smile that did not waver.
“I understand,” she said in a whisper.
He sat down and wrote a long phrase. She understood it all, and without
asking him, “Is it this?” took the chalk and at once answered.
For a long while he could not understand what she had written, and often
looked into her eyes. He was stupefied with happiness. He could not supply
the word she had meant; but in her charming eyes, beaming with happiness,
he saw all he needed to know. And he wrote three letters. But he had hardly
