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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
lovingkindness.’ 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 trans-
formed 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 con-
nections, 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,