XIV.

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 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 deceive time. Stepan Arkadyevich would have been the companion most congenial to him, but he was going out, he said, to a soiree — 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 Arkadyevich showed Levin that he comprehended that feeling fittingly.

“Oh, so it’s not time to die yet?” said Stepan Arkadyevich, pressing Levin’s hand with emotion.

“N-n-no!” said Levin.

Darya Alexandrovna too, as she said good-by 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-by 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 Sergei Ivanovich, 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. Happiness is all that’s the matter with me! Why is it you have never married?”

Sergei Ivanovich smiled.

“I am very glad — she seems a lovely gi . . .” Sergei Ivanovich 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 lovely girl” were such simple, humble words, so out of harmony with his feeling.

Sergei Ivanovich 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 say no 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, fine, kindhearted person he was. This was evident from his confusion and embarrassment in reading the minutes. Then the discussion began. They were disputing about the reckoning off of certain sums and the laying of certain pipes, and Sergei Ivanovich 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 afterward answered him very viciously and delightfully. And then Sviiazhsky (he was there also) said something too, very handsomely and nobly. Levin listened to them, and saw clearly that this reckoning off of sums and these pipes were not anything real, and that they were not at all angry, but were all the finest, 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 they were all extremely fond of Levin in particular that day. This was evident from the way they spoke to him, from the friendly, affectionate way even those whom he did not know looked at him.

“Well, are you contented with it?” Sergei Ivanovich asked him.

“Very much. I never supposed it was so interesting, nice, capital!”

Sviiazhsky 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 Sviiazhsky, what he had failed to find in him. He was a clever and wonderfully goodhearted 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 Sviiazhsky’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, than to Sviiazhsky’s wife and sister-in-law, and he was very glad to go to see them.

Sviiazhsky 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 Sviiazhsky was right, that the whole business was of little value, and he saw the wonderful suavity and consideration with which Sviiazhsky avoided fully expressing his correct view. The ladies of the Sviiazhsky household were particularly delightful. It seemed to Levin that they knew all about it already, and sympathized with him, saying nothing merely out of delicacy. He stayed with them one hour, two, three, talking of all sorts of subjects, but implied in it the only thing that filled his heart, and did not observe that he was boring them dreadfully, and that it was long past their bedtime. Sviiazhsky 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, Iegor, whom Levin had not noticed before, struck him as a very intelligent, excellent, and, above all, a goodhearted man.

“Well, Iegor, it’s hard work not sleeping, isn’t it?”

“What’s to be done! 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 Iegor had a family — three boys and a daughter, a seamstress, whom he wanted to marry to a cashier in a saddler’s shop.

Levin, on hearing this, informed Iegor 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.

Iegor 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 goodhearted fellow!” thought Levin.

“Well, but you yourself, Iegor, when you got married, did you love your wife?”

“Ay! And why not?” responded Iegor.

And Levin saw that Iegor 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. Iegor departed, and Levin was left alone. He had eaten scarcely anything at dinner, had refused tea and supper at Sviiazhsky’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 windows and sat down on 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 Auriga, with the yellowish light of Capella. He gazed at the cross, then at the star, drank in the fresh freezing air that flowed evenly into the room, and followed as though in a dream the images and memories that rose in his imagination. At four o’clock he heard steps in the passage and peeped out of the door. It was the gambler Miaskin, 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 six o’clock there was a noise of people polishing the floors, and church bells ringing to some divine service, and Levin felt that he was beginning to get frozen. He closed the pane, washed, dressed, and went out into the street.