and memories that rose in his imagination. At four o’clock he heard steps in
the passage and peeped out at the door. It was the gambler Myaskin, whom
he knew, coming from the club. He walked gloomily, frowning and
coughing. “Poor, unlucky fellow!” thought Levin, and tears came into his
eyes from love and pity for this man. He would have talked with him, and
tried to comfort him, but remembering that he had nothing but his shirt on,
he changed his mind and sat down again at the open pane to bathe in the
cold air and gaze at the exquisite lines of the cross, silent, but full of
meaning for him, and the mounting lurid yellow star. At seven o’clock there
was a noise of people polishing the floors, and bells ringing in some
servants’ department, and Levin felt that he was beginning to get frozen. He
closed the pane, washed, dressed, and went out into the street.
Chapter 15
The streets were still empty. Levin went to the house of the
Shtcherbatskys. The visitors’ doors were closed and everything was asleep.
He walked back, went into his room again, and asked for coffee. The day
servant, not Yegor this time, brought it to him. Levin would have entered
into conversation with him, but a bell rang for the servant, and he went out.
Levin tried to drink coffee and put some roll in his mouth, but his mouth
was quite at a loss what to do with the roll. Levin, rejecting the roll, put on
his coat and went out again for a walk. It was nine o’clock when he reached
the Shtcherbatskys’ steps the second time. In the house they were only just
up, and the cook came out to go marketing. He had to get through at least
two hours more.
All that night and morning Levin lived perfectly unconsciously, and felt
perfectly lifted out of the conditions of material life. He had eaten nothing
for a whole day, he had not slept for two nights, had spent several hours
undressed in the frozen air, and felt not simply fresher and stronger than
ever, but felt utterly independent of his body; he moved without muscular
effort, and felt as if he could do anything. He was convinced he could fly
upwards or lift the corner of the house, if need be. He spent the remainder
of the time in the street, incessantly looking at his watch and gazing about
him.
And what he saw then, he never saw again after. The children especially
going to school, the bluish doves flying down from the roofs to the
pavement, and the little loaves covered with flour, thrust out by an unseen
hand, touched him. Those loaves, those doves, and those two boys were not
earthly creatures. It all happened at the same time: a boy ran towards a dove
and glanced smiling at Levin; the dove, with a whir of her wings, darted
away, flashing in the sun, amid grains of snow that quivered in the air, while
from a little window there came a smell of fresh-baked bread, and the
loaves were put out. All of this together was so extraordinarily nice that
Levin laughed and cried with delight. Going a long way round by Gazetny
Place and Kislovka, he went back again to the hotel, and putting his watch
before him, he sat down to wait for twelve o’clock. In the next room they
were talking about some sort of machines, and swindling, and coughing
their morning coughs. They did not realize that the hand was near twelve.
The hand reached it. Levin went out onto the steps. The sledge-drivers
clearly knew all about it. They crowded round Levin with happy faces,
quarreling among themselves, and offering their services. Trying not to
offend the other sledge drivers, and promising to drive with them too, Levin
took one and told him to drive to the Shtcherbatskys’. The sledge-driver
was splendid in a white shirt-collar sticking out over his overcoat and into
his strong, full-blooded red neck. The sledge was high and comfortable, and
altogether such a one as Levin never drove in after, and the horse was a
good one, and tried to gallop but didn’t seem to move. The driver knew the
Shtcherbatskys’ house, and drew up at the entrance with a curve of his arm
and a “Wo!” especially indicative of respect for his fare. The
Shtcherbatskys’ hall-porter certainly knew all about it. This was evident
from the smile in his eyes and the way he said:
“Well, it’s a long while since you’ve been to see us, Konstantin
Dmitrievitch!”
Not only he knew all about it, but he was unmistakably delighted and
making efforts to conceal his joy. Looking into his kindly old eyes, Levin
realized even something new in his happiness.
“Are they up?”
“Pray walk in! Leave it here,” said he, smiling, as Levin would have
come back to take his hat. That meant something.
“To whom shall I announce your honor?” asked the footman.
The footman, though a young man, and one of the new school of
footmen, a dandy, was a very kind-hearted, good fellow, and he too knew
all about it.
“The princess … the prince … the young princess….” said Levin.
The first person he saw was Mademoiselle Linon. She walked across the
room, and her ringlets and her face were beaming. He had only just spoken
to her, when suddenly he heard the rustle of a skirt at the door, and
Mademoiselle Linon vanished from Levin’s eyes, and a joyful terror came
over him at the nearness of his happiness. Mademoiselle Linon was in great
haste, and leaving him, went out at the other door. Directly she had gone
out, swift, swift light steps sounded on the parquet, and his bliss, his life,
himself—what was best in himself, what he had so long sought and longed
for—was quickly, so quickly approaching him. She did not walk, but
seemed, by some unseen force, to float to him. He saw nothing but her
clear, truthful eyes, frightened by the same bliss of love that flooded his
heart. Those eyes were shining nearer and nearer, blinding him with their
light of love. She stopped still close to him, touching him. Her hands rose
and dropped onto his shoulders.
She had done all she could—she had run up to him and given herself up
entirely, shy and happy. He put his arms round her and pressed his lips to
her mouth that sought his kiss.
She too had not slept all night, and had been expecting him all the
morning.
Her mother and father had consented without demur, and were happy in
her happiness. She had been waiting for him. She wanted to be the first to
tell him her happiness and his. She had got ready to see him alone, and had
been delighted at the idea, and had been shy and ashamed, and did not
know herself what she was doing. She had heard his steps and voice, and
had waited at the door for Mademoiselle Linon to go. Mademoiselle Linon
had gone away. Without thinking, without asking herself how and what, she
had gone up to him, and did as she was doing.
“Let us go to mamma!” she said, taking him by the hand. For a long
while he could say nothing, not so much because he was afraid of
desecrating the loftiness of his emotion by a word, as that every time he
tried to say something, instead of words he felt that tears of happiness were
welling up. He took her hand and kissed it.
