‘But what can be done?’ said Levin guiltily. ‘That was my last attempt. And I put heart and soul into it. I can’t do it. Not up to it.’
‘It’s not that you are not up to it,’ said Sergey Ivanovich, ‘you’re just not looking at things the right way.’
‘Maybe,’ answered Levin gloomily.
‘Our brother Nikolay is here again, you know.’
Brother Nikolay was Konstantin Levin’s elder brother, and Sergey Ivanovich’s maternal half-brother, a ruined man who had squandered the greater part of his inheritance, kept the strangest, most disreputable company, and had quarrelled with his brothers.
‘What did you say?’ exclaimed Levin in horror. ‘How do you know?’
‘Prokofy saw him in the street.’
‘Here, in Moscow? Where is he? Do you know?’ Levin got up from his chair, as if about to go at once.
‘I’m sorry I told you about it,’ said Sergey Ivanovich, shaking his head at his younger brother’s agitation. ‘I made enquiries to find out where he is living and sent him his promissory note to Trubin, which I’ve paid. Here is what he replied.’
And Sergey Ivanovich handed his brother a note he retrieved from under a paperweight.
Levin read what was written in the strange, familiar handwriting: ‘I humbly request to be left in peace. That is all that I require from my dear brothers. Nikolay Levin.’
Levin read this and stood before Sergey Ivanovich with the note in his hands, his head bowed.
A battle was going on in his heart between the desire to forget now about his unfortunate brother and the recognition that this would be wrong.
‘He obviously wants to insult me,’ continued Sergey Ivanovich, ‘but he cannot insult me, and I wish with all my heart that I could help him, but I know it’s impossible.’
‘Yes, yes,’ repeated Levin. ‘I do understand and appreciate your attitude to him; but I’m going to go and see him.’
‘Go if you like, but I wouldn’t advise it,’ said Sergey Ivanovich. ‘I mean, I’m not afraid on my own account, as he won’t sow dissension between us; but I advise you not to go for your own sake. He can’t be helped. However, you must do what you want.’
‘Maybe he can’t be helped, but I feel, particularly just now—well yes, that’s something different—I feel I cannot be at ease.’
‘Well, I don’t understand that,’ said Sergey Ivanovich. ‘One thing I do understand, though,’ he added, ‘is that it is a lesson in humility. I’ve begun seeing what is regarded as contemptible in a different light, and with greater acceptance since our brother Nikolay became what he is now … You know what he has done …’
‘Oh it’s awful, awful!’ repeated Levin.
After obtaining his brother’s address from Sergey Ivanovich’s servant, Levin was about to go and see him at once, but after thinking it over he decided to postpone his visit until evening. First of all, in order to have some peace of mind, he needed to resolve the matter that had brought him to Moscow. From his brother’s, Levin drove to Oblonsky’s office, and after enquiring about the Shcherbatskys, he drove off to the place where he had been told he might find Kitty.
9
AT four o’clock, feeling his heart beating, Levin stepped out of his cab at the Zoological Gardens, and set off along the path towards the toboggan runs and the skating-rink, knowing he was bound to see her there, because he had seen the Shcherbatskys’ carriage at the entrance.
It was a clear, frosty day. By the entrance stood ranks of carriages, sleighs, cabbies, and police. Smart people, their hats shining in the bright sun, were milling about the entrance and on the paths cleared between the Russian-style huts with carved eaves; the garden’s curly old birches, their branches all heavy with snow, seemed to have been adorned with festive new vestments.
He walked along the path towards the skating-rink, saying to himself: ‘You mustn’t be nervous, you must calm down. What’s the matter with you? Be quiet, stupid!’ he told his heart. But the more he tried to calm down, the more breathless he became. An acquaintance he encountered called out to him, but Levin did not even recognize who it was. He walked up to the slopes, with the clanking of chains hauling toboggans up and down mingled with the thunder of speeding toboggans and the sound of merry voices. He took a few more steps, the rink opened out before him, and amongst all the other skaters he immediately recognized her.
He could tell she was there from the joy and fear gripping his heart. She was standing talking to a lady at the other end of the rink. There did not seem to be anything special about either her clothes or the way she held herself, but it was as easy for Levin to recognize her in the crowd as a rose among nettles. Everything was lit up by her. She was a smile illuminating everything all around. ‘Can I really step on to the ice and go up to her over there?’ he wondered. The place where she was standing seemed like an inaccessible, sacred shrine, and there was a moment when he almost left, so terrified had he become. He had to make a concerted effort to persuade himself that all kinds of people were walking near her, and that he too might have come there to go skating himself. He walked down, trying to avoid looking at her for too long, as if she were the sun, but like the sun, he could still see her even when he was not looking at her.
The people gathering on the ice on that day of the week, at that time, were from the same circle, and they all knew each other. They included expert skaters showing off their skill, beginners pushing chairs along with timid, awkward movements, boys, and elderly people who were skating for health reasons; to Levin they all seemed like the lucky chosen few, because they were there, close to her. The skaters all seemed to be blithely overtaking her, going up to her, and even talking to her and enjoying themselves completely independently of her, making the most of the excellent ice and the fine weather.
Nikolay Shcherbatsky, Kitty’s cousin, dressed in a short jacket and narrow trousers, was sitting on a bench with his skates on, and when he caught sight of Levin, he called out to him:
‘Hey, it’s Russia’s number-one skater! Have you been here long? The ice is excellent, put your skates on.’
‘I don’t have skates,’ replied Levin, surprised by this boldness and over familiarity in her presence, and not letting her out of his sight for a minute, even though he was not looking at her. He felt the sun coming near him. She was at a corner, and, with her slender little feet in their high boots placed at an obtuse angle, was skating towards him with evident timidity. A boy in Russian dress overtook her, bending down low and recklessly flinging his arms about. She was not skating very steadily; having removed her hands from the little muff hanging on a cord, she was holding them out in readiness, and as she looked at Levin, whom she had recognized, she smiled at him and at her fear. When she had completed the turn, she pushed off with a supple foot and skated straight over to Shcherbatsky, and catching hold of him with her hand, she nodded to Levin with a smile. She was even lovelier than in his imagination.
When he thought about her, he could vividly imagine all of her, in particular the charm of that small blonde head with its expression of childlike candour and goodness, so lightly poised on those graceful, girlish shoulders. The childlike expression of her face combined with the beauty of her slender figure constituted her particular charm, which he remembered well; but what was always so astonishing and unexpected about her was the expression of her gentle, calm, and truthful eyes, and in particular her smile, which always transported Levin into a magical world where he felt tender-hearted and soothed, as he could remember being on rare days in his early childhood.
‘Have you been here long?’ she asked, holding out her hand to him. ‘Oh, thank you,’ she added when he picked up the handkerchief which had fallen out of her muff.