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Vronsky.”

      Vronsky got up and, looking cordially at Levin, shook hands with him.

      “I believe I was to have dined with you this winter,” he said, smiling his simple and open smile; “but you had unexpectedly left for the country.”

      “Konstantin Dmitrievitch despises and hates town and us townspeople,” said Countess Nordston.

      “My words must make a deep impression on you, since you remember them so well,” said Levin, and, suddenly conscious that he had said just the same thing before, he reddened.

      Vronsky looked at Levin and Countess Nordston, and smiled.

      “Are you always in the country?” he inquired. “I should think it must be dull in the winter.”

      “It’s not dull if one has work to do; besides, one’s not dull by oneself,” Levin replied abruptly.

      “I am fond of the country,” said Vronsky, noticing, and affecting not to notice, Levin’s tone.

      “But I hope, count, you would not consent to live in the country always,” said Countess Nordston.

      “I don’t know; I have never tried for long. I experienced a queer feeling once,” he went on. “I never longed so for the country, Russian country, with bast shoes and peasants, as when I was spending a winter with my mother in Nice. Nice itself is dull enough, you know. And indeed, Naples and Sorrento are only pleasant for a short time. And it’s just there that Russia comes back to me most vividly, and especially the country. It’s as though…”

      He talked on, addressing both Kitty and Levin, turning his serene, friendly eyes from one to the other, and saying obviously just what came into his head.

      Noticing that Countess Nordston wanted to say something, he stopped short without finishing what he had begun, and listened attentively to her.

      The conversation did not flag for an instant, so that the princess, who always kept in reserve, in case a subject should be lacking, two heavy guns—the relative advantages of classical and of modern education, and universal military service—had not to move out either of them, while Countess Nordston had not a chance of chaffing Levin.

      Levin wanted to, and could not, take part in the general conversation; saying to himself every instant, “Now go,” he still did not go, as though waiting for something.

      The conversation fell upon table-turning and spirits, and Countess Nordston, who believed in spiritualism, began to describe the marvels she had seen.

      “Ah, countess, you really must take me, for pity’s sake do take me to see them! I have never seen anything extraordinary, though I am always on the lookout for it everywhere,” said Vronsky, smiling.

      “Very well, next Saturday,” answered Countess Nordston. “But you, Konstantin Dmitrievitch, do you believe in it?” she asked Levin.

      “Why do you ask me? You know what I shall say.”

      “But I want to hear your opinion.”

      “My opinion,” answered Levin, “is only that this table-turning simply proves that educated society—so called—is no higher than the peasants. They believe in the evil eye, and in witchcraft and omens, while we…”

      “Oh, then you don’t believe in it?”

      “I can’t believe in it, countess.”

      “But if I’ve seen it myself?”

      “The peasant women too tell us they have seen goblins.”

      “Then you think I tell a lie?”

      And she laughed a mirthless laugh.

      “Oh, no, Masha, Konstantin Dmitrievitch said he could not believe in it,” said Kitty, blushing for Levin, and Levin saw this, and, still more exasperated, would have answered, but Vronsky with his bright frank smile rushed to the support of the conversation, which was threatening to become disagreeable.

      “You do not admit the conceivability at all?” he queried. “But why not? We admit the existence of electricity, of which we know nothing. Why should there not be some new force, still unknown to us, which…”

      “When electricity was discovered,” Levin interrupted hurriedly, “it was only the phenomenon that was discovered, and it was unknown from what it proceeded and what were its effects, and ages passed before its applications were conceived. But the spiritualists have begun with tables writing for them, and spirits appearing to them, and have only later started saying that it is an unknown force.”

      Vronsky listened attentively to Levin, as he always did listen, obviously interested in his words.

      “Yes, but the spiritualists say we don’t know at present what this force is, but there is a force, and these are the conditions in which it acts. Let the scientific men find out what the force consists in. No, I don’t see why there should not be a new force, if it…”

      “Why, because with electricity,” Levin interrupted again, “every time you rub tar against wool, a recognized phenomenon is manifested, but in this case it does not happen every time, and so it follows it is not a natural phenomenon.”

      Feeling probably that the conversation was taking a tone too serious for a drawing room, Vronsky made no rejoinder, but by way of trying to change the conversation, he smiled brightly, and turned to the ladies.

      “Do let us try at once, countess,” he said; but Levin would finish saying what he thought.

      “I think,” he went on, “that this attempt of the spiritualists to explain their marvels as some sort of new natural force is most futile. They boldly talk of spiritual force, and then try to subject it to material experiment.”

      Every one was waiting for him to finish, and he felt it.

      “And I think you would be a first-rate medium,” said Countess

       Nordston; “there’s something enthusiastic in you.”

      Levin opened his mouth, was about to say something, reddened, and said nothing.

      “Do let us try table-turning at once, please,” said Vronsky.

       “Princess, will you allow it?”

      And Vronsky stood up, looking for a little table.

      Kitty got up to fetch a table, and as she passed, her eyes met Levin’s. She felt for him with her whole heart, the more because she was pitying him for suffering of which she was herself the cause. “If you can forgive me, forgive me,” said her eyes, “I am so happy.”

      “I hate them all, and you, and myself,” his eyes responded, and he took up his hat. But he was not destined to escape. Just as they were arranging themselves round the table, and Levin was on the point of retiring, the old prince came in, and after greeting the ladies, addressed Levin.

      “Ah!” he began joyously. “Been here long, my boy? I didn’t even know you were in town. Very glad to see you.” The old prince embraced Levin, and talking to him did not observe Vronsky, who had risen, and was serenely waiting till the prince should turn to him.

      Kitty felt how distasteful her father’s warmth was to Levin after what had happened. She saw, too, how coldly her father responded at last to Vronsky’s bow, and how Vronsky looked with amiable perplexity at her father, as though trying and failing to understand how and why anyone could be hostilely disposed towards him, and she flushed.

      “Prince, let us have Konstantin Dmitrievitch,” said Countess

       Nordston; “we want to try an experiment.”

      “What experiment? Table-turning? Well, you must excuse me, ladies and gentlemen, but to my mind it is better fun to play the ring game,” said the old prince, looking at Vronsky, and guessing that it had

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