Chapter XV
At the end of the evening Kitty told her
mother of her conversation with Levin, and in spite of all the pity
she felt for Levin, she was glad at the thought that she had
received an offer. She had no doubt that she had acted rightly. But
after she had gone to bed, for a long while she could not sleep.
One impression pursued her relentlessly. It was Levin’s face, with
his scowling brows, and his kind eyes looking out in dark dejection
below them, as he stood listening to her father, and glancing at
her and at Vronsky. And she felt so sorry for him that tears came
into her eyes. But immediately she thought of the man for whom she
had given him up. She vividly recalled his manly, resolute face,
his noble self-possession, and the good-nature conspicuous in
everything towards every one. She remembered the love for her of
the man she loved, and once more all was gladness in her soul, and
she lay on the pillow, smiling with happiness. “I’m sorry, I’m
sorry; but what could I do? It’s not my fault,” she said to
herself; but an inner voice told her something else. Whether she
felt remorse at having won Levin’s love, or at having refused him,
she did not know. But her happiness was poisoned by doubts. “Lord,
have pity on us; Lord, have pity on us; Lord, have pity on
us!”1 She
repeated to herself, till she fell asleep.
Meanwhile there took place below, in the prince’s
little library, one of the scenes so often repeated between the
parents on account of their favorite daughter.
“What? I’ll tell you what!” shouted the prince,
waving his arms, and at once wrapping his squirrel-lined
dressing-gown round him again. “That you’ve no pride, no dignity;
that you’re disgracing, ruining your daughter by this vulgar,
stupid matchmaking!”
“But, really, for mercy’s sake, prince, what have I
done?” said the princess, almost crying.
She, pleased and happy after her conversation with
her daughter, had gone to the prince to say good-night as usual,
and though she had no intention of telling him of Levin’s offer and
Kitty’s refusal, still she hinted to her husband that she fancied
things were practically settled with Vronsky, and that he would
declare himself so soon as his mother arrived. And thereupon, at
those words, the prince had all at once flown into a passion, and
began to use unseemly language.
“What have you done? I’ll tell you what. First of
all, you’re trying to catch an eligible gentleman, and all Moscow
will be talking of it, and with good reason. If you have evening
parties, invite every one, don’t pick out the possible suitors.
Invite all the young bucks. Engage a piano-player, and let them
dance, and not as you do things nowadays, hunting up good matches.
It makes me sick, sick to see it, and you’ve gone on till you’ve
turned the poor wench’s head. Levin’s a thousand times the better
man. As for this little Petersburg swell, they’re turned out by
machinery, all on one pattern, and all precious rubbish. But if he
were a prince of the blood, my daughter need not run after any
one.”
“But what have I done?”
“Why, you’ve . . .” The prince was crying
wrathfully.
“I know if one were to listen to you,” interrupted
the princess, “we should never marry our daughter. If it’s to be
so, we’d better go into the country.”
“Well, and we had better.”
“But do wait a minute. Do I try and catch them? I
don’t try to catch them in the least. A young man, and a very nice
one, has fallen in love with her, and she, I fancy...”
“Oh, yes, you fancy! And how if she really is in
love, and he’s no more thinking of marriage than I am! . . . Oh,
that I should live to see it! ... Ah! spiritualism! Ah! Nice! Ah!
the ball!” And the prince, imagining that he was mimicking his
wife, made a mincing curtsey at each word. “And this is how we’re
preparing wretchedness for Kitty; and she’s really got the notion
into her head...”
“But what makes you suppose so?”
“I don’t suppose; I know. We have eyes for such
things, though women-folk haven’t. I see a man who has serious
intentions, that’s Levin: and I see a peacock, like this
feather-head, who’s only amusing himself.”
“Oh, well, when once you get an idea into your
head! ...”
“Well, you’ll remember my words, but too late, just
as with Dolly.”
“Well, well, we won’t talk of it,” the princess
stopped him, recollecting her unlucky Dolly.
“By all means, and good-night!”
And signing each other with the cross, the husband
and wife parted with a kiss, feeling that they each remained of
their own opinion.
The princess had at first been quite certain that
that evening had settled Kitty’s future, and that there could be no
doubt of Vronsky’s intentions, but her husband’s words had
disturbed her. And returning to her own room, in terror before the
unknown future, she, too, like Kitty, repeated several times in her
heart, “Lord, have pity; Lord, have pity; Lord, have pity.”