Anna Karenina
saw a sort of special principle, called by him the “choral” principle.
Levin did not agree with Pestsov, nor with his brother, who had a
special attitude of his own, both admitting and not admitting the
significance of the Russian commune. But he talked to them, simply
trying to reconcile and soften their differences. He was not in the
least interested in what he said himself, and even less so in what they
said; all he wanted was that they and everyone should be happy and
contented. He knew now the one thing of importance; and that one thing
was at first there, in the drawing-room, and then began moving across
and came to a standstill at the door. Without turning round he felt the
eyes fixed on him, and the smile, and he could not help turning round.
She was standing in the doorway with Shtcherbatsky, looking at him.
“I thought you were going towards the piano,” said he, going up to her.
“That’s something I miss in the country—music.”
“No; we only came to fetch you and thank you,” she said, rewarding him
with a smile that was like a gift, “for coming. What do they want to
argue for? No one ever convinces anyone, you know.”
“Yes; that’s true,” said Levin; “it generally happens that one argues
warmly simply because one can’t make out what one’s opponent wants to
prove.”
Levin had often noticed in discussions between the most intelligent
people that after enormous efforts, and an enormous expenditure of
logical subtleties and words, the disputants finally arrived at being
aware that what they had so long been struggling to prove to one
another had long ago, from the beginning of the argument, been known to
both, but that they liked different things, and would not define what
they liked for fear of its being attacked. He had often had the
experience of suddenly in a discussion grasping what it was his
opponent liked and at once liking it too, and immediately he found
himself agreeing, and then all arguments fell away as useless.
Sometimes, too, he had experienced the opposite, expressing at last
what he liked himself, which he was devising arguments to defend, and,
chancing to express it well and genuinely, he had found his opponent at
once agreeing and ceasing to dispute his position. He tried to say
this.
She knitted her brow, trying to understand. But directly he began to
illustrate his meaning, she understood at once.
“I know: one must find out what he is arguing for, what is precious to
him, then one can....”
She had completely guessed and expressed his badly expressed idea.
Levin smiled joyfully; he was struck by this transition from the
confused, verbose discussion with Pestsov and his brother to this
laconic, clear, almost wordless communication of the most complex
ideas.
Shtcherbatsky moved away from them, and Kitty, going up to a
card-table, sat down, and, taking up the chalk, began drawing diverging
circles over the new green cloth.
They began again on the subject that had been started at dinner—the
liberty and occupations of women. Levin was of the opinion of Darya
Alexandrovna that a girl who did not marry should find a woman’s duties
in a family. He supported this view by the fact that no family can get
on without women to help; that in every family, poor or rich, there are
and must be nurses, either relations or hired.
“No,” said Kitty, blushing, but looking at him all the more boldly with
her truthful eyes; “a girl may be so circumstanced that she cannot live
in the family without humiliation, while she herself....”
At the hint he understood her.
“Oh, yes,” he said. “Yes, yes, yes—you’re right; you’re right!”
And he saw all that Pestsov had been maintaining at dinner of the
liberty of woman, simply from getting a glimpse of the terror of an old
maid’s existence and its humiliation in Kitty’s heart; and loving her,
he felt that terror and humiliation, and at once gave up his arguments.
A silence followed. She was still drawing with the chalk on the table.
Her eyes were shining with a soft light. Under the influence of her
mood he felt in all his being a continually growing tension of
happiness.
“Ah! I’ve scribbled all over the table!” she said, and, laying down the
chalk, she made a movement as though to get up.
“What! shall I be left alone—without her?” he thought with horror, and
he took the chalk. “Wait a minute,” he said, sitting down to the table.
“I’ve long wanted to ask you one thing.”
He looked straight into her caressing, though frightened eyes.
“Please, ask it.”
“Here,” he said; and he wrote the initial letters, _w, y, t, m, i, c,
n, b, d, t, m, n, o, t_. These letters meant, “When you told me it
could never be, did that mean never, or then?” There seemed no
likelihood that she could make out this complicated sentence; but he
looked at her as though his life depended on her understanding the
words. She glanced at him seriously, then leaned her puckered brow on
her hands and began to read. Once or twice she stole a look at him, as
though asking him, “Is it what I think?”
“I understand,” she said, flushing a little.
“What is this word?” he said, pointing to the _n_ that stood for
_never_.
“It means _never_,” she said; “but that’s not true!”
He quickly rubbed out what he had written, gave her the chalk, and
stood up. She wrote, _t, i, c, n, a, d_.
Dolly was completely comforted in the depression caused by her
conversation with Alexey Alexandrovitch when she caught sight of the
two figures: Kitty with the chalk in her hand, with a shy and happy
smile looking upwards at Levin, and his handsome figure bending over
the table with glowing eyes fastened one minute on the table and the
next on her. He was suddenly radiant: he had understood. It meant,
“Then I could not answer differently.”
He glanced at her questioningly, timidly.
“Only then?”
“Yes,” her smile answered.
“And n... and now?” he asked.
“Well, read this. I’ll tell you what I should like—should like so
much!” she wrote the initial letters, _i, y, c, f, a, f, w, h._ This
meant, “If you could forget and forgive what happened.”
He snatched the chalk with nervous, trembling fingers, and breaking it,
wrote the initial letters of the following phrase, “I have nothing to
forget and to forgive; I have never ceased to love you.”
She glanced at him with a smile that did not waver.
“I understand,” she said in a whisper.
He sat down and wrote a long phrase. She understood it all, and without
asking him, “Is it this?” took the chalk and at once answered.
For a long while he could not understand what she had written, and
often looked into her eyes. He was stupefied with happiness. He could
not supply the word she had meant; but in her charming eyes, beaming
with happiness, he saw all he needed to know. And he wrote three
letters. But he had hardly finished writing when she read them over her
arm, and herself finished and wrote the answer, “Yes.”
“You’re playing _secrétaire_?” said the old prince. “But we must really
be getting along if you want to be in time at the theater.”
Levin got up and escorted Kitty to the door.
In their conversation everything had been said; it had been said that
she loved him, and that she would tell her father and mother that he
would come tomorrow morning.
Chapter 14
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
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 kill time. Stepan Arkadyevitch would have been the
companion most congenial to him, but he was going out, he said, to a
_soirée_, 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 Arkadyevitch showed
Levin that he comprehended that feeling fittingly.
“Oh, so it’s not time to die yet?” said Stepan Arkadyevitch, pressing
Levin’s hand with emotion.
“N-n-no!” said Levin.
Darya Alexandrovna too, as she said good-bye 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-bye 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 Sergey Ivanovitch, 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. It’s happiness is the matter with me! Why is it you have
never married?”
Sergey Ivanovitch smiled.
“I am very glad, she seems a nice gi....” Sergey Ivanovitch 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 nice
girl” were such simple, humble words, so out of harmony with his
feeling.
Sergey Ivanovitch 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 nothing 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, nice, kind-hearted
person he was. This was evident from his confusion and embarrassment in
reading the minutes. Then the discussion began. They were disputing
about the misappropriation of certain sums and the laying of certain
pipes, and Sergey Ivanovitch 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
afterwards answered him very viciously and delightfully. And then
Sviazhsky (he was there too) said something too, very handsomely and
nobly. Levin listened to them, and saw clearly that these missing sums
and these pipes were not anything real, and that they were not at all
angry, but were all the nicest, 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 Levin himself in particular they were all extremely fond of
that day. That was evident from the way they spoke to him, from the
friendly, affectionate way even those he did not know looked at him.
“Well, did you like it?” Sergey Ivanovitch asked him.
“Very much. I never supposed it was so interesting! Capital! Splendid!”
Sviazhsky 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 Sviazhsky, what he had failed to find in him. He was a
clever and wonderfully good-hearted man.
“Most delighted,” he said, and asked after his wife and sister-in-law.