“No; he’s only three months old,” answered Darya Alexandrovna with
pride.
“You don’t say so!”
“And have you any children?”
“I’ve had four; I’ve two living—a boy and a girl. I weaned her last
carnival.”
“How old is she?”
“Why, two years old.”
“Why did you nurse her so long?”
“It’s our custom; for three fasts….”
And the conversation became most interesting to Darya Alexandrovna.
What sort of time did she have? What was the matter with the boy? Where
was her husband? Did it often happen?
Darya Alexandrovna felt disinclined to leave the peasant women, so
interesting to her was their conversation, so completely identical were all
their interests. What pleased her most of all was that she saw clearly what
all the women admired more than anything was her having so many
children, and such fine ones. The peasant women even made Darya
Alexandrovna laugh, and offended the English governess, because she was
the cause of the laughter she did not understand. One of the younger women
kept staring at the Englishwoman, who was dressing after all the rest, and
when she put on her third petticoat she could not refrain from the remark,
“My, she keeps putting on and putting on, and she’ll never have done!” she
said, and they all went off into roars.
Chapter 9
On the drive home, as Darya Alexandrovna, with all her children round
her, their heads still wet from their bath, and a kerchief tied over her own
head, was getting near the house, the coachman said, “There’s some
gentleman coming: the master of Pokrovskoe, I do believe.”
Darya Alexandrovna peeped out in front, and was delighted when she
recognized in the gray hat and gray coat the familiar figure of Levin
walking to meet them. She was glad to see him at any time, but at this
moment she was specially glad he should see her in all her glory. No one
was better able to appreciate her grandeur than Levin.
Seeing her, he found himself face to face with one of the pictures of his
daydream of family life.
“You’re like a hen with your chickens, Darya Alexandrovna.”
“Ah, how glad I am to see you!” she said, holding out her hand to him.
“Glad to see me, but you didn’t let me know. My brother’s staying with
me. I got a note from Stiva that you were here.”
“From Stiva?” Darya Alexandrovna asked with surprise.
“Yes; he writes that you are here, and that he thinks you might allow me
to be of use to you,” said Levin, and as he said it he became suddenly
embarrassed, and, stopping abruptly, he walked on in silence by the
wagonette, snapping off the buds of the lime trees and nibbling them. He
was embarrassed through a sense that Darya Alexandrovna would be
annoyed by receiving from an outsider help that should by rights have come
from her own husband. Darya Alexandrovna certainly did not like this little
way of Stepan Arkadyevitch’s of foisting his domestic duties on others. And
she was at once aware that Levin was aware of this. It was just for this
fineness of perception, for this delicacy, that Darya Alexandrovna liked
Levin.
“I know, of course,” said Levin, “that that simply means that you would
like to see me, and I’m exceedingly glad. Though I can fancy that, used to
town housekeeping as you are, you must feel in the wilds here, and if
there’s anything wanted, I’m altogether at your disposal.”
“Oh, no!” said Dolly. “At first things were rather uncomfortable, but now
we’ve settled everything capitally—thanks to my old nurse,” she said,
indicating Marya Philimonovna, who, seeing that they were speaking of
her, smiled brightly and cordially to Levin. She knew him, and knew that he
would be a good match for her young lady, and was very keen to see the
matter settled.
“Won’t you get in, sir, we’ll make room this side!” she said to him.
“No, I’ll walk. Children, who’d like to race the horses with me?” The
children knew Levin very little, and could not remember when they had
seen him, but they experienced in regard to him none of that strange feeling
of shyness and hostility which children so often experience towards
hypocritical, grown-up people, and for which they are so often and
miserably punished. Hypocrisy in anything whatever may deceive the
cleverest and most penetrating man, but the least wide-awake of children
recognizes it, and is revolted by it, however ingeniously it may be
disguised. Whatever faults Levin had, there was not a trace of hypocrisy in
him, and so the children showed him the same friendliness that they saw in
their mother’s face. On his invitation, the two elder ones at once jumped out
to him and ran with him as simply as they would have done with their nurse
or Miss Hoole or their mother. Lily, too, began begging to go to him, and
her mother handed her to him; he sat her on his shoulder and ran along with
her.
“Don’t be afraid, don’t be afraid, Darya Alexandrovna!” he said, smiling
good-humoredly to the mother; “there’s no chance of my hurting or
dropping her.”
And, looking at his strong, agile, assiduously careful and needlessly wary
movements, the mother felt her mind at rest, and smiled gaily and
approvingly as she watched him.
Here, in the country, with children, and with Darya Alexandrovna, with
whom he was in sympathy, Levin was in a mood not infrequent with him,
of childlike light-heartedness that she particularly liked in him. As he ran
with the children, he taught them gymnastic feats, set Miss Hoole laughing
with his queer English accent, and talked to Darya Alexandrovna of his
pursuits in the country.
After dinner, Darya Alexandrovna, sitting alone with him on the balcony,
began to speak of Kitty.
“You know, Kitty’s coming here, and is going to spend the summer with
me.”
“Really,” he said, flushing, and at once, to change the conversation, he
said: “Then I’ll send you two cows, shall I? If you insist on a bill you shall
pay me five roubles a month; but it’s really too bad of you.”
“No, thank you. We can manage very well now.”
“Oh, well, then, I’ll have a look at your cows, and if you’ll allow me, I’ll
give directions about their food. Everything depends on their food.”
