Anna Karenina. Leo Tolstoy

enough, enough said about it,” he said, getting up from his seat.

      “All right, but do sit down.”

      But Levin could not sit down. He walked with his firm tread twice up and down the little cage of a room, blinked his eyelids that his tears might not fall, and only then sat down to the table.

      “You must understand,” said he, “it’s not love. I’ve been in love, but it’s not that. It’s not my feeling, but a sort of force outside me has taken possession of me. I went away, you see, because I made up my mind that it could never be, you understand, as a happiness that does not come on earth; but I’ve struggled with myself, I see there’s no living without it. And it must be settled.”

      “What did you go away for?”

      “Ah, stop a minute! Ah, the thoughts that come crowding on one! The questions one must ask oneself! Listen. You can’t imagine what you’ve done for me by what you said. I’m so happy that I’ve become positively hateful; I’ve forgotten everything. I heard today that my brother Nikolay . . . you know, he’s here . . . I had even forgotten him. It seems to me that he’s happy too. It’s a sort of madness. But one thing’s awful . . . . Here, you’ve been married, you know the feeling . . . it’s awful that we—old—with a past . . . not of love, but of sins . . . are brought all at once so near to a creature pure and innocent; it’s loathsome, and that’s why one can’t help feeling oneself unworthy.”

      “Oh, well, you’ve not many sins on your conscience.”

      “Alas! all the same,” said Levin, “when with loathing I go over my life, I shudder and curse and bitterly regret it . . . . Yes.”

      “What would you have? The world’s made so,” said Stepan Arkadyevitch.

      “The one comfort is like that prayer, which I always liked: ‘Forgive me not according to my unworthiness, but according to Thy loving-kindness.’ That’s the only way she can forgive me.”

      Chapter 11

      Levin emptied his glass, and they were silent for a while.

      “There’s one other thing I ought to tell you. Do you know Vronsky?” Stepan Arkadyevitch asked Levin.

      “No, I don’t. Why do you ask?”

      “Give us another bottle,” Stepan Arkadyevitch directed the Tatar, who was filling up their glasses and fidgeting round them just when he was not wanted.

      “Why you ought to know Vronsky is that he’s one of your rivals.”

      “Who’s Vronsky?” said Levin, and his face was suddenly transformed from the look of childlike ecstasy which Oblonsky had just been admiring to an angry and unpleasant expression.

      “Vronsky is one of the sons of Count Kirill Ivanovitch Vronsky, and one of the finest specimens of the gilded youth of Petersburg. I made his acquaintance in Tver when I was there on official business, and he came there for the levy of recruits. Fearfully rich, handsome, great connections, an aide-de-camp, and with all that a very nice, good-natured fellow. But he’s more than simply a good-natured fellow, as I’ve found out here—he’s a cultivated man, too, and very intelligent; he’s a man who’ll make his mark.”

      Levin scowled and was dumb.

      “Well, he turned up here soon after you’d gone, and as I can see, he’s over head and ears in love with Kitty, and you know that her mother . . . .”

      “Excuse me, but I know nothing,” said Levin, frowning gloomily. And immediately he recollected his brother Nikolay and how hateful he was to have been able to forget him.

      “You wait a bit, wait a bit,” said Stepan Arkadyevitch, smiling and touching his hand. “I’ve told you what I know, and I repeat that in this delicate and tender matter, as far as one can conjecture, I believe the chances are in your favor.”

      Levin dropped back in his chair; his face was pale.

      “But I would advise you to settle the thing as soon as may be,” pursued Oblonsky, filling up his glass.

      “No, thanks, I can’t drink any more,” said Levin, pushing away his glass. “I shall be drunk . . . . Come, tell me how are you getting on?” he went on, obviously anxious to change the conversation.

      “One word more: in any case I advise you to settle the question soon. Tonight I don’t advise you to speak,” said Stepan Arkadyevitch. “Go round tomorrow morning, make an offer in due form, and God bless you . . . .”

      “Oh, do you still think of coming to me for some shooting? Come next spring, do,” said Levin.

      Now his whole soul was full of remorse that he had begun this conversation with Stepan Arkadyevitch. A feeling such as his was profaned by talk of the rivalry of some Petersburg officer, of the suppositions and the counsels of Stepan Arkadyevitch.

      Stepan Arkadyevitch smiled. He knew what was passing in Levin’s soul.

      “I’ll come some day,” he said. “But women, my boy, they’re the pivot everything turns upon. Things are in a bad way with me, very bad. And it’s all through women. Tell me frankly now,” he pursued, picking up a cigar and keeping one hand on his glass; “give me your advice.”

      “Why, what is it?”

      “I’ll tell you. Suppose you’re married, you love your wife, but you’re fascinated by another woman . . . .”

      “Excuse me, but I’m absolutely unable to comprehend how . . . just as I can’t comprehend how I could now, after my dinner, go straight to a baker’s shop and steal a roll.”

      Stepan Arkadyevitch’s eyes sparkled more than usual.

      “Why not? A roll will sometimes smell so good one can’t resist it.”

      “Himmlisch ist’s, wenn ich bezwungen

       Meine irdische Begier;

      Aber doch wenn’s nich gelungen

       Hatt’ ich auch recht hübsch Plaisir!”

      As he said this, Stepan Arkadyevitch smiled subtly. Levin, too, could not help smiling.

      “Yes, but joking apart,” resumed Stepan Arkadyevitch, “you must understand that the woman is a sweet, gentle loving creature, poor and lonely, and has sacrificed everything. Now, when the thing’s done, don’t you see, can one possibly cast her off? Even supposing one parts from her, so as not to break up one’s family life, still, can one help feeling for her, setting her on her feet, softening her lot?”

      “Well, you must excuse me there. You know to me all women are divided into two classes . . . at least no . . . truer to say: there are women and there are . . . I’ve never seen exquisite fallen beings, and I never shall see them, but such creatures as that painted Frenchwoman at the counter with the ringlets are vermin to my mind, and all fallen women are the same.”

      “But the Magdalen?”

      “Ah, drop that! Christ would never have said those words if He had known how they would be abused. Of all the Gospel those words are the only ones remembered. However, I’m not saying so much what I think, as what I feel. I have a loathing for fallen women. You’re afraid of spiders, and I of these vermin. Most likely you’ve not made a study of spiders and don’t know their character; and so it is with me.”

      “It’s very well for you to talk like that; it’s very much like that gentleman in Dickens who used to fling all difficult questions over his right shoulder. But to deny the facts is no answer. What’s to be done—you tell me that, what’s to be done? Your wife gets older, while you’re full of life. Before you’ve time to look round, you feel that you can’t love your wife with love, however much you may esteem her. And then all at once love turns up, and you’re done for, done for,” Stepan Arkadyevitch said with weary despair.

      Levin half smiled.

      “Yes,