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Levin had not the heart to disillusion him of the notion that there
could be something delightful apart from her, and so said nothing.
“There’s some sense in this custom of saying good-bye to bachelor
life,” said Sergey Ivanovitch. “However happy you may be, you must
regret your freedom.”
“And confess there is a feeling that you want to jump out of the
window, like Gogol’s bridegroom?”
“Of course there is, but it isn’t confessed,” said Katavasov, and he
broke into loud laughter.
“Oh, well, the window’s open. Let’s start off this instant to Tver!
There’s a big she-bear; one can go right up to the lair. Seriously, let’s go
by the five o’clock! And here let them do what they like,” said Tchirikov,
smiling.
“Well, now, on my honor,” said Levin, smiling, “I can’t find in my
heart that feeling of regret for my freedom.”
“Yes, there’s such a chaos in your heart just now that you can’t find
anything there,” said Katavasov. “Wait a bit, when you set it to rights
a little, you’ll find it!”
“No; if so, I should have felt a little, apart from my feeling” (he
could not say love before them) “and happiness, a certain regret at
losing my freedom.... On the contrary, I am glad at the very loss of my
freedom.”
“Awful! It’s a hopeless case!” said Katavasov. “Well, let’s drink to
his recovery, or wish that a hundredth part of his dreams may be real-
ized—and that would be happiness such as never has been seen on
earth!”
Soon after dinner the guests went away to be in time to be dressed
for the wedding.
When he was left alone, and recalled the conversation of these
bachelor friends, Levin asked himself: had he in his heart that regret
for his freedom of which they had spoken? He smiled at the question.
“Freedom! What is freedom for? Happiness is only in loving and
wishing her wishes, thinking her thoughts, that is to say, not freedom at
all—that’s happiness!”
“But do I know her ideas, her wishes, her feelings?” some voice
suddenly whispered to him. The smile died away from his face, and he
grew thoughtful. And suddenly a strange feeling came upon him.
There came over him a dread and doubt—doubt of everything.
“What if she does not love me? What if she’s marrying me simply
to be married? What if she doesn’t see herself what she’s doing?” he
asked himself. “She may come to her senses, and only when she is
being married realize that she does not and cannot love me.” And
strange, most evil thoughts of her began to come to him. He was
jealous of Vronsky, as he had been a year ago, as though the evening he
had seen her with Vronsky had been yesterday. He suspected she had
not told him everything.
He jumped up quickly. “No, this can’t go on!” he said to himself in
despair. “I’ll go to her; I’ll ask her; I’ll say for the last time: we are free,
and hadn’t we better stay so? Anything’s better than endless misery,
disgrace, unfaithfulness!” With despair in his heart and bitter anger
against all men, against himself, against her, he went out of the hotel
and drove to her house.
He found her in one of the back rooms. She was sitting on a chest
and making some arrangements with her maid, sorting over heaps of
dresses of different colors, spread on the backs of chairs and on the
floor.
“Ah!” she cried, seeing him, and beaming with delight. “Kostya!
Konstantin Dmitrievitch!” (These latter days she used these names