“Ah, yes, I’m in a poor way, a bad way,” said Stepan Arkadyevitch with a
heavy sigh.
Chapter 6
When Oblonsky asked Levin what had brought him to town, Levin
blushed, and was furious with himself for blushing, because he could not
answer, “I have come to make your sister-in-law an offer,” though that was
precisely what he had come for.
The families of the Levins and the Shtcherbatskys were old, noble
Moscow families, and had always been on intimate and friendly terms. This
intimacy had grown still closer during Levin’s student days. He had both
prepared for the university with the young Prince Shtcherbatsky, the brother
of Kitty and Dolly, and had entered at the same time with him. In those days
Levin used often to be in the Shtcherbatskys’ house, and he was in love
with the Shtcherbatsky household. Strange as it may appear, it was with the
household, the family, that Konstantin Levin was in love, especially with
the feminine half of the household. Levin did not remember his own
mother, and his only sister was older than he was, so that it was in the
Shtcherbatskys’ house that he saw for the first time that inner life of an old,
noble, cultivated, and honorable family of which he had been deprived by
the death of his father and mother. All the members of that family,
especially the feminine half, were pictured by him, as it were, wrapped
about with a mysterious poetical veil, and he not only perceived no defects
whatever in them, but under the poetical veil that shrouded them he
assumed the existence of the loftiest sentiments and every possible
perfection. Why it was the three young ladies had one day to speak French,
and the next English; why it was that at certain hours they played by turns
on the piano, the sounds of which were audible in their brother’s room
above, where the students used to work; why they were visited by those
professors of French literature, of music, of drawing, of dancing; why at
certain hours all the three young ladies, with Mademoiselle Linon, drove in
the coach to the Tversky boulevard, dressed in their satin cloaks, Dolly in a
long one, Natalia in a half-long one, and Kitty in one so short that her
shapely legs in tightly-drawn red stockings were visible to all beholders;
why it was they had to walk about the Tversky boulevard escorted by a
footman with a gold cockade in his hat—all this and much more that was
done in their mysterious world he did not understand, but he was sure that
everything that was done there was very good, and he was in love precisely
with the mystery of the proceedings.
In his student days he had all but been in love with the eldest, Dolly, but
she was soon married to Oblonsky. Then he began being in love with the
second. He felt, as it were, that he had to be in love with one of the sisters,
only he could not quite make out which. But Natalia, too, had hardly made
her appearance in the world when she married the diplomat Lvov. Kitty was
still a child when Levin left the university. Young Shtcherbatsky went into
the navy, was drowned in the Baltic, and Levin’s relations with the
Shtcherbatskys, in spite of his friendship with Oblonsky, became less
intimate. But when early in the winter of this year Levin came to Moscow,
after a year in the country, and saw the Shtcherbatskys, he realized which of
the three sisters he was indeed destined to love.
One would have thought that nothing could be simpler than for him, a
man of good family, rather rich than poor, and thirty-two years old, to make
the young Princess Shtcherbatskaya an offer of marriage; in all likelihood
he would at once have been looked upon as a good match. But Levin was in
love, and so it seemed to him that Kitty was so perfect in every respect that
she was a creature far above everything earthly; and that he was a creature
so low and so earthly that it could not even be conceived that other people
and she herself could regard him as worthy of her.
After spending two months in Moscow in a state of enchantment, seeing
Kitty almost every day in society, into which he went so as to meet her, he
abruptly decided that it could not be, and went back to the country.
Levin’s conviction that it could not be was founded on the idea that in the
eyes of her family he was a disadvantageous and worthless match for the
charming Kitty, and that Kitty herself could not love him. In her family’s
eyes he had no ordinary, definite career and position in society, while his
contemporaries by this time, when he was thirty-two, were already, one a
colonel, and another a professor, another director of a bank and railways, or
president of a board like Oblonsky. But he (he knew very well how he must
appear to others) was a country gentleman, occupied in breeding cattle,
shooting game, and building barns; in other words, a fellow of no ability,
