XV.

At the end of the evening Kitty told her mother of her conversation with Levin, and in spite of all the pity she felt for Levin, she was glad at the thought that she had received a proposal. She had no doubt that she had acted rightly. But after she had gone to bed, she could not sleep for a long while. One impression pursued her relentlessly. It was Levin’s face, with his scowling brows, and his kind eyes looking out in dark dejection below them, as he stood listening to her father, and glancing at her and at Vronsky. And she felt so sorry for him that tears came into her eyes. But immediately she thought of the man for whom she had given him up. She vividly recalled his manly, firm face, his noble calmness, and the good nature so conspicuous toward everyone. She remembered the love for her of the man she loved, and once more all was gladness in her soul, and she lay on the pillow smiling with happiness. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry; but what could I do? It’s not my fault,” she said to herself; but an inner voice told her otherwise. Whether she felt remorse at having captivated Levin, or at having refused him, she did not know. But her happiness was poisoned by doubts. “Lord, have pity on us; Lord, have pity, Lord, have pity!” she said over to herself till she fell asleep.

Meanwhile there took place below, in the Prince’s little study, one of the scenes so often repeated between the parents on account of their favorite daughter.

“What? I’ll tell you what!” shouted the Prince, brandishing his arms, and at once wrapping his squirrel-lined dressing gown round him again. “That you’ve no pride, no dignity; that you’re disgracing, ruining your daughter by this vulgar, stupid matchmaking!”

“But, really, for mercy’s sake, Prince, what have I done?” said the Princess, almost crying.

She, pleased and happy after her conversation with her daughter, had gone to the Prince to say good night as usual, and though she had no intention of telling him of Levin’s proposal and Kitty’s refusal, still she hinted to her husband that she fancied things were practically settled with Vronsky, and would be definitely so as soon as his mother arrived. And thereupon, at those words, the Prince had all at once flown into a passion, and begun to use unseemly language.

“What have you done? I’ll tell you what. First of all, you’re trying to allure an eligible gentleman, and all Moscow will be talking of it, and with good reason. If you have evening parties, invite everyone, don’t pick out the possible suitors. Invite all these whelps [so the Prince styled the youths of Moscow]; engage a piano player, and let them dance — and not as you did tonight: only the wooers, and doing your matching. It makes me sick — sick to see it — and you’ve gone on till you’ve turned the poor lass’s head. Levin’s a thousand times the better man. As for this Peterburg swell — they’re turned out by machinery, all on one pattern, and all precious rubbish. But if he were a prince of the blood, my daughter need not run after anyone.”

“But what have I done?”

“Why, you’ve . . .” The Prince was yelling wrathfully.

“I know if one were to listen to you,” interrupted the Princess, “we should never marry off our daughter. If it’s to be so, we’d better go into the country.”

“Well, we had better.”

“But do wait a minute. Do I wheedle them? I don’t wheedle them in the least. A young man, and a very nice one, has fallen in love with her, and she, I fancy . . .”

“Oh, yes, you fancy! And how if she really is in love, and he’s no more thinking of marriage than I am! . . . Oh, that I should live to see it! . . . “Ah — spiritualism! Ah — Nice! Ah — the ball!’” And the Prince, imagining that he was mimicking his wife, made a mincing curtsy at each word. “And this is how we prepare wretchedness for Katenka; and she’s really got the notion into her head. . . .”

“But what makes you suppose so?”

“I don’t suppose; I know. For such things we have eyes; womenfolk haven’t. I see a man who has serious intentions, that’s Levin: and I see a quail, like this cackler, who’s only amusing himself.”

“Oh, well, when once you get an idea into your head! . . .”

“Well, you’ll remember my words, but too late, just as with Dashenka.”

“Well, well, we won’t talk of it,” the Princess stopped him, recollecting her unlucky Dolly.

“By all means, and good night!”

And signing each other with the cross, the husband and wife parted with a kiss, feeling that each remained of his or her own opinion.

The Princess had at first been quite certain that that evening had settled Kitty’s fortune, and that there could be no doubt of Vronsky’s intentions, but her husband’s words had disturbed her. And returning to her own room, in terror before the unknown future, she, too, like Kitty, repeated several times in her heart, “Lord, have pity; Lord, have pity; Lord, have pity!”