finished writing when she read them over her arm, and herself finished and
wrote the answer, “Yes.”
“You’re playing secrétaire?” said the old prince. “But we must really be
getting along if you want to be in time at the theater.”
Levin got up and escorted Kitty to the door.
In their conversation everything had been said; it had been said that she
loved him, and that she would tell her father and mother that he would
come tomorrow morning.
Chapter 14
When Kitty had gone and Levin was left alone, he felt such uneasiness
without her, and such an impatient longing to get as quickly, as quickly as
possible, to tomorrow morning, when he would see her again and be
plighted to her forever, that he felt afraid, as though of death, of those
fourteen hours that he had to get through without her. It was essential for
him to be with someone to talk to, so as not to be left alone, to kill time.
Stepan Arkadyevitch would have been the companion most congenial to
him, but he was going out, he said, to a soirée, in reality to the ballet. Levin
only had time to tell him he was happy, and that he loved him, and would
never, never forget what he had done for him. The eyes and the smile of
Stepan Arkadyevitch showed Levin that he comprehended that feeling
fittingly.
“Oh, so it’s not time to die yet?” said Stepan Arkadyevitch, pressing
Levin’s hand with emotion.
“N-n-no!” said Levin.
Darya Alexandrovna too, as she said good-bye to him, gave him a sort of
congratulation, saying, “How glad I am you have met Kitty again! One
must value old friends.” Levin did not like these words of Darya
Alexandrovna’s. She could not understand how lofty and beyond her it all
was, and she ought not to have dared to allude to it. Levin said good-bye to
them, but, not to be left alone, he attached himself to his brother.
“Where are you going?”
“I’m going to a meeting.”
“Well, I’ll come with you. May I?”
“What for? Yes, come along,” said Sergey Ivanovitch, smiling. “What is
the matter with you today?”
“With me? Happiness is the matter with me!” said Levin, letting down
the window of the carriage they were driving in. “You don’t mind?—it’s so
stifling. It’s happiness is the matter with me! Why is it you have never
married?”
Sergey Ivanovitch smiled.
“I am very glad, she seems a nice gi….” Sergey Ivanovitch was
beginning.
“Don’t say it! don’t say it!” shouted Levin, clutching at the collar of his
fur coat with both hands, and muffling him up in it. “She’s a nice girl” were
such simple, humble words, so out of harmony with his feeling.
Sergey Ivanovitch laughed outright a merry laugh, which was rare with
him. “Well, anyway, I may say that I’m very glad of it.”
“That you may do tomorrow, tomorrow and nothing more! Nothing,
nothing, silence,” said Levin, and muffling him once more in his fur coat,
he added: “I do like you so! Well, is it possible for me to be present at the
meeting?”
“Of course it is.”
“What is your discussion about today?” asked Levin, never ceasing
smiling.
They arrived at the meeting. Levin heard the secretary hesitatingly read
the minutes which he obviously did not himself understand; but Levin saw
from this secretary’s face what a good, nice, kind-hearted person he was.
This was evident from his confusion and embarrassment in reading the
minutes. Then the discussion began. They were disputing about the
misappropriation of certain sums and the laying of certain pipes, and Sergey
Ivanovitch was very cutting to two members, and said something at great
length with an air of triumph; and another member, scribbling something on
a bit of paper, began timidly at first, but afterwards answered him very
viciously and delightfully. And then Sviazhsky (he was there too) said
something too, very handsomely and nobly. Levin listened to them, and saw
clearly that these missing sums and these pipes were not anything real, and
that they were not at all angry, but were all the nicest, kindest people, and
everything was as happy and charming as possible among them. They did
no harm to anyone, and were all enjoying it. What struck Levin was that he
could see through them all today, and from little, almost imperceptible signs
knew the soul of each, and saw distinctly that they were all good at heart.
And Levin himself in particular they were all extremely fond of that day.
That was evident from the way they spoke to him, from the friendly,
affectionate way even those he did not know looked at him.
“Well, did you like it?” Sergey Ivanovitch asked him.
“Very much. I never supposed it was so interesting! Capital! Splendid!”
Sviazhsky went up to Levin and invited him to come round to tea with
him. Levin was utterly at a loss to comprehend or recall what it was he had
disliked in Sviazhsky, what he had failed to find in him. He was a clever
and wonderfully good-hearted man.
“Most delighted,” he said, and asked after his wife and sister-in-law. And
from a queer association of ideas, because in his imagination the idea of
Sviazhsky’s sister-in-law was connected with marriage, it occurred to him
that there was no one to whom he could more suitably speak of his
happiness, and he was very glad to go and see them.
Sviazhsky questioned him about his improvements on his estate,
presupposing, as he always did, that there was no possibility of doing
anything not done already in Europe, and now this did not in the least annoy
Levin. On the contrary, he felt that Sviazhsky was right, that the whole
business was of little value, and he saw the wonderful softness and
consideration with which Sviazhsky avoided fully expressing his correct
view. The ladies of the Sviazhsky household were particularly delightful. It
seemed to Levin that they knew all about it already and sympathized with
him, saying nothing merely from delicacy. He stayed with them one hour,
two, three, talking of all sorts of subjects but the one thing that filled his
heart, and did not observe that he was boring them dreadfully, and that it
was long past their bedtime.
Sviazhsky went with him into the hall, yawning and wondering at the
strange humor his friend was in. It was past one o’clock. Levin went back
to his hotel, and was dismayed at the thought that all alone now with his
impatience he had ten hours still left to get through. The servant, whose turn
it was to be up all night, lighted his candles, and would have gone away, but
Levin stopped him. This servant, Yegor, whom Levin had noticed before,
struck him as a very intelligent, excellent, and, above all, good-hearted
man.
“Well, Yegor, it’s hard work not sleeping, isn’t it?”
“One’s got to put up with it! It’s part of our work, you see. In a
gentleman’s house it’s easier; but then here one makes more.”
It appeared that Yegor had a family, three boys and a daughter, a
sempstress, whom he wanted to marry to a cashier in a saddler’s shop.
Levin, on hearing this, informed Yegor that, in his opinion, in marriage
the great thing was love, and that with love one would always be happy, for
happiness rests only on oneself.
Yegor listened attentively, and obviously quite took in Levin’s idea, but
by way of assent to it he enunciated, greatly to Levin’s surprise, the
observation that when he had lived with good masters he had always been
satisfied with his masters, and now was perfectly satisfied with his
employer, though he was a Frenchman.
“Wonderfully good-hearted fellow!” thought Levin.
“Well, but you yourself, Yegor, when you got married, did you love your
wife?”
“Ay! and why not?” responded Yegor.
And Levin saw that Yegor too was in an excited state and intending to
express all his most heartfelt emotions.
“My life, too, has been a wonderful one. From a child up….” he was
beginning with flashing eyes, apparently catching Levin’s enthusiasm, just
as people catch yawning.
But at that moment a ring was heard. Yegor departed, and Levin was left
alone. He had eaten scarcely anything at dinner, had refused tea and supper
at Sviazhsky’s, but he was incapable of thinking of supper. He had not slept
the previous night, but was incapable of thinking of sleep either. His room
was cold, but he was oppressed by heat. He opened both the movable panes
in his window and sat down to the table opposite the open panes. Over the
snow-covered roofs could be seen a decorated cross with chains, and above
it the rising triangle of Charles’s Wain with the yellowish light of Capella.
He gazed at the cross, then at the stars, drank in the fresh freezing air that
flowed evenly into the room, and followed as though in a dream the images
