LITMIR.BIZ

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dine together.’

      ‘Dine? But I’ve nothing particular to say — only a word or two … to ask you something! We can have a talk some other time.’

      ‘Well, tell me the word or two now, and we’ll talk at dinner.’

      ‘The two words are … however, it’s nothing particular,’ said Levin, and his face became almost vicious in his efforts to overcome his shyness.

      ‘What are the Shcherbatskys doing? All going on as usual?’

      Oblonsky, who had long known that Levin was in love with his, Oblonsky’s, sister-in-law Kitty, smiled very slightly and his eyes sparkled merrily.

      ‘You spoke of two words, but I can’t answer in two because… . Excuse me a moment… .’

      The Secretary came in, familiarly respectful, though with a certain modest consciousness (common to all secretaries) of his superiority to his chief in knowledge of business affairs, approached Oblonsky with some papers, and on the plea of asking a question began to explain some difficulty. Oblonsky, without hearing him to the end, put his hand in a kindly way on the Secretary’s sleeve and, softening his remark with a smile, said:

      ‘No; please do it as I said,’ and, having in a few words explained his view of the matter, he pushed the paper away and said finally: ‘Yes, please do it that way, Zachary Nikitich!’

      The Secretary went out, abashed. Levin, who during Oblonsky’s talk with the Secretary had quite overcome his shyness, stood leaning both arms on the back of a chair and listening with ironical attention.

      ‘I don’t understand it at all!’ he remarked.

      ‘What don’t you understand?’ asked Oblonsky with his usual merry smile, as he took out a cigarette. He expected Levin to say something eccentric.

      ‘I don’t understand what you’re doing,’ said Levin, shrugging his shoulders. ‘How can you do it seriously?’

      ‘Why not?’

      ‘Because there’s nothing to do!’

      ‘That’s how it seems to you, but really we’re overwhelmed with work.’

      ‘ — On paper! Ah well! you’ve a gift for that sort of thing,’ added Levin.

      ‘You mean I’m deficient in something?’

      ‘Perhaps!’ said Levin. ‘But all the same I admire your dignity and am proud that my friend is such a great man! But all the same you’ve not answered my question,’ he added, making a desperate effort to look Oblonsky straight in the face.

      ‘All right! All right! Wait a bit, and you’ll be in the same position yourself. It’s all very well for you, who have three thousand desyatins [about eight thousand acres] in the Karazin District, and such muscles, and are as fresh as a twelve-year-old girl! But still, you’ll be joining us yourself some day! … Now, about what you were asking: nothing has changed, but it’s a pity you’ve stopped away so long.’

      ‘Why?’ asked Levin in alarm.

      ‘Oh, nothing — ’ answered Oblonsky. ‘We’ll talk it over later on. But what has brought you here specially?’

      ‘We’ll talk about that too later on,’ said Levin and again blushed to his very ears.

      ‘All right, that’s natural enough!’ said Oblonsky. ‘Well, you know, I’d ask you to come to us, but my wife is not very well. Let’s see, — if you want to meet them, you’ll be sure to find them in the Zoological Gardens from four to five. Kitty skates there. Go there, and I’ll call for you and we’ll dine somewhere together.’

      ‘Splendid! Well then, au revoir!’

      ‘Mind you don’t forget! I know you — you may rush off back to the country!’ shouted Oblonsky after him.

      ‘That’ll be all right!’ said Levin and left the room, only recollecting when already at the door that he had not taken leave of Oblonsky’s colleagues.

      ‘He seems a very energetic man,’ said Grinevich when Levin was gone.

      ‘Yes, my dear fellow,’ said Oblonsky, shaking his head, ‘and he’s a lucky man! Three thousand desyatins in the Karazin District, his life before him, and such freshness! Not like some of us!’

      ‘What have you to complain of, Stephen Arkadyevich?’

      ‘Oh, things are wretched, miserable!’ said Oblonsky, and sighed heavily.

      Chapter 6

      WHEN Oblonsky asked Levin his reason for coming to town, Levin had blushed and been angry with himself for blushing, because he could not answer: ‘I have come to propose to your sister-in-law,’ although he really had come solely for that purpose.

      The Levins and the Shcherbatskys were two old aristocratic Moscow families that had always been on intimate and friendly terms. Their ties were drawn still closer during Levin’s University days. He had prepared for and entered the University together with young Prince Shcherbatsky, Dolly’s and Kitty’s brother. At that time Levin often visited the Shcherbatskys, and fell in love with the family. Strange as it may seem, it was the whole Shcherbatsky family — especially the feminine half of it — that Levin was in love with. He could not remember his mother, and his sister was much his senior, so that in the Shcherbatskys’ house he saw for the first time the family life of a well-educated and honourable family of the old aristocracy — a life such as he had been deprived of by the death of his own father and mother. All the members of that family, especially the women, appeared to him as though wrapped in some mystic poetic veil, and he not only saw no defects in them, but imagined behind that poetic veil the loftiest feelings and every possible perfection. Why these three young ladies had to speak French and English on alternate days; why at a given time they played, each in her turn, on the piano (the sound of which reached their brother’s room where the students were at work); why those masters of French literature, music, drawing, and dancing came to the house; why at certain hours the three young ladies accompanied by Mademoiselle Linon were driven in a calèche [a light carriage with a folding top] to the Tverskoy Boulevard, wearing satin cloaks (Dolly a long one; Nataly a somewhat shorter one; and Kitty so short a cloak that her shapely little legs in their tight red stockings were quite exposed); why they had to walk up and down the Tverskoy Boulevard accompanied by a footman with a gilt cockade in his hat, — all this and much more that happened in this mystic world he did not understand; but he knew that everything done there was beautiful and he was in love with the very mystery of it all.

      In his student days he very nearly fell in love with the eldest daughter, Dolly; but a marriage was soon after arranged between her and Oblonsky. Then he began falling in love with the second daughter. He seemed to feel that he must fall in love with one of the sisters, but he was not sure with which. But Nataly too, as soon as she came out, married the diplomat, Lvov. Kitty was still a child when Levin finished at the University. Young Shcherbatsky who entered the navy was drowned in the Baltic; and after that, in spite of his friendship with Oblonsky, Levin’s intercourse with the Shcherbatskys became less frequent. But when he had come to Moscow early in the winter of this year and met them, he knew at last which of the three sisters he was really fated to love.

      It would seem that nothing could be simpler than for him, a man of good family, rich rather than poor, and thirty-two years of age, to propose to the Princess Shcherbatskaya. In all likelihood he would have been considered quite a suitable match. But Levin was in love, and therefore Kitty seemed to him so perfect in every respect, so transcending everything earthly, and he seemed to himself so very earthly and insignificant a creature, that the possibility of his being considered worthy of her by others or by herself was to him

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