Anna Karenina (Dole)/Part Six/Chapter 3
CHAPTER III
Kitty was especially glad of the opportunity to be alone with her husband, because she had noticed how a shadow of dissatisfaction had crossed his telltale face when he stepped on the terrace and asked what they were talking about, and no one replied.
As they walked along in front of the others, and, losing sight of the house, took to the well-trodden, dusty road, bestrewn with rye and corn, she seized his hand and pressed it against her side. He had already forgotten the momentary unpleasant impression, and now that he was alone with her, and while the thought of her approaching maternity did not for an instant escape from his mind, he experienced a novel joy in the sense of the presence of a beloved woman—a joy perfectly free from anything sensual. There was nothing special to talk about, but he liked to hear the sound of her voice, which, like the expression of her eyes, had changed, owing to her condition. In her voice, as well as in her eyes, there was a gentleness and gravity like that which people show when their attention has been concentrated on some one favorite task.
"You are not getting tired, are you? Lean on me more," said he.
"No, I am so glad to have a chance to be alone with you, and I confess that I miss our winter evenings when we two were alone together, much as I enjoy having them here!"
"That was good, but this is better. Both are better," said he, pressing her hand.
"Do you know what we were talking about when you came?"
"About preserves?"
"Yes, about preserves; but afterward about the way men propose."
"Ah!" said Levin, listening rather to the sound of her voice than to the words which she spoke, and all the time thinking of the road which they were following down to the forest, and carefully avoiding the places that might cause her to stumble.
"But how about Sergyeï Ivanovitch and Varenka? Have you noticed it? .... I very much wish it might come about," she went on to say. "What do you think about it?"
And she glanced into his face.
"I don't know what to think," replied Levin, with a smile. "Sergyeï in this respect was always a mystery to me. I think I told you about it." ....
"Yes, that he was in love with a young girl, but she died."....
"That was when I was a child; I knew it by tradition. I remember him as he was then. He was wonderfully charming. But since then I have watched him with women. He is polite; he likes some of them; but you can't help feeling that for him they are merely people, not women."
"Yes, but now in the case of Varenka .... it seems to me there is some ...."
"Maybe there is .... but one must know him. .... He is a peculiar, a remarkable man. He lives only a spiritual life. He is too pure and high-minded a man ...."
"What do you mean? How could this bring him to a lower level?"
"I don't say it would, but he is so accustomed to live a spiritual life only that he cannot reconcile himself to what is matter of fact. .... And Varenka is quite matter of fact."
Levin had by this time become accustomed to speak his thoughts with all freedom, not taking pains to couch it in explicit words; he knew that his wife in such moments of intimate communion as now would understand what he expressed by a hint, and she did understand him.
"Yes, but she has none of that practicality such as I have. I can understand that he would never fall in love with me. She is all soul."
"That is not so, he is so fond of you. And I am always so glad that my friends like you."....
"Yes, he is kind to me; but ...."
"But not as it was with our lamented Nikolenka.... you loved each other," said Levin, in conclusion. "But why not speak it out?" he added. "I often reproach myself that one so quickly forgets. Oh, what a terrible, what a fascinating man he was!.... But what were we talking about?" said Levin, after a silence.
"You mean that he is incapable of falling in love," said she, expressing her husband's thought in her own way.
"I do not say that, but he has none of that weakness which is requisite .... and I always have envied him, and envy him still, in spite of my happiness."
"You envy him because he is incapable of falling in love?"
"I envy him because he is better than I am," said Levin, smiling. "He does not live for himself; it is duty which guides him, and so he has a right to be serene and well satisfied."
"And you?" asked Kitty, with a mischievous smile.
He could never follow the course of her thoughts when they caused her to smile. But the last deduction was that her husband, who had the greatest admiration for his brother, and who humbled himself before him, was insincere. Kitty knew that this insincerity of his was caused by his love for him, from a sort of conscientious scruple at being too happy, and especially from a never ceasing desire to be better—and she loved this in him, and that was why she smiled,
"But why should you be dissatisfied?" she asked, with the same smile.
Her disbelief in his self-dissatisfaction pleased him, and he unconsciously provoked her to explain the reasons for her disbelief.
"I am happy, but I am dissatisfied with myself ...." said he.
"How can you be dissatisfied, if you are happy?"
"How can I express it? .... In my heart of hearts I wish nothing else except that you should not stumble. Oh! you must not jump so," he exclaimed, interrupting his argument with a reproach, because she had made a too vivacious motion in jumping over a branch which lay in the path.
"But when I criticize myself and compare myself with others, especially with my brother, I am conscious of all my inferiority."
"But why?" persisted Kitty, with the same smile. "Aren't you always doing for others? And your farming, your book?" ....
"Yes, I feel this especially now; and you are to blame," said he, pressing her hand. "I do this so, so superficially. Ah, if I could love all this work as I love you! .... But of late I work on it as if it were a task imposed on me."
"But what do you say about papa?" asked Kitty. "Is he unworthy because he does nothing for the commonwealth?"
"He? .... oh, no! But one must have just such simplicity, transparency, goodness, as he has; but I haven't, have I? If I do not work, I am tormented. 'T is you who have made it so. If it were not for you, and if it were not for what is coming," said he, with a significant glance at her figure, "I should devote all my powers to this work; but now I can't, and my conscience pricks me. I do it like a task, it is all pretense ...."
"Would you like to exchange with Sergyeï Ivanovitch," asked Kitty; "would you like to work for nothing but your duty and the general welfare of mankind?"
"Of course not. The fact is, I am so happy that I can't reason clearly. .... So you think the proposal will take place to-day, do you?" he asked, after a moment's silence.
"I think so, and then I think not. But I wish with all my heart it might. Here, wait!" She stooped down and plucked a daisy growing by the roadside. "Now, count; he'll propose, he'll not propose," she said, giving him the flower.
"He'll propose, he'll not propose," repeated Levin, picking off the narrow, white, trembling petals.
"No, no!" cried Kitty, stopping him and seizing his arm, as she excitedly watched his fingers. "You pulled off two!"
"Well, that little one doesn't count," said Levin, tearing off a short undeveloped petal. "But here comes the linyeïka to meet us."
"Kitty, you haven't fatigued yourself?" cried the princess.
"Not the least in the world, mamma."
"Well, get in, if the horses are quiet and will walk."
But there was no need of riding; the place was so near they continued walking.