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glass, she noticed with joy that it was one of her good days, and that she
was in complete possession of all her forces,—she needed this so for
what lay before her: she was conscious of external composure and free
grace in her movements.
At half-past seven she had only just gone down into the drawing
room, when the footman announced, “Konstantin Dmitrievitch Levin.”
The princess was still in her room, and the prince had not come in. “So
it is to be,” thought Kitty, and all the blood seemed to rush to her heart.
She was horrified at her paleness, as she glanced into the looking-glass.
At that moment she knew beyond doubt that he had come early on
purpose to find her alone and to make her an offer. And only then for
the first time the whole thing presented itself in a new, different as-
pect; only then she realized that the question did not affect her only—
with whom she would be happy, and whom she loved—but that she
would have that moment to wound a man whom she liked. And to
wound him cruelly. What for? Because he, dear fellow, loved her, was
in love with her. But there was no help for it, so it must be, so it would
have to be.
“My God! shall I myself really have to say it to him?” she thought.
“Can I tell him I don’t love him? That will be a lie. What am I to say to
him? That I love someone else? No, that’s impossible. I’m going away,
I’m going away.”
She had reached the door, when she heard his step. “No! it’s not
honest. What have I to be afraid of? I have done nothing wrong.
What is to be, will be! I’ll tell the truth. And with him one can’t be ill
at ease. Here he is,” she said to herself, seeing his powerful, shy figure,
with his shining eyes fixed on her. She looked straight into his face, as
thought imploring him to spare her, and gave her hand.
“It’s not time yet; I think I’m too early,” he said glancing round the
empty drawing room. When he saw that his expectations were real-
ized, that there was nothing to prevent him from speaking, his face
became gloomy.
“Oh, no,” said Kitty, and sat down at the table.
“But this was just what I wanted, to find you alone,” be began, not
sitting down, and not looking at her, so as not to lose courage.
“Mamma will be down directly. She was very much tired.... Yester-
day...”
She talked on, not knowing what her lips were uttering, and not
taking her supplicating and caressing eyes off him.
He glanced at her; she blushed, and ceased speaking.
“I told you I did not know whether I should be here long...that it
depended on you...”
She dropped her head lower and lower, not knowing herself what
answer she should make to what was coming.
“That it depended on you,” he repeated. “I meant to say...I meant
to say...I came for this...to be my wife!” he brought out, not knowing
what he was saying; but feeling that the most terrible thing was said,
he stopped short and looked at her...
She was breathing heavily, not looking at him. She was feeling
ecstasy. Her soul was flooded with happiness. She had never antici-
pated that the utterance of love would produce such a powerful effect
on her. But it lasted only an instant. She remembered Vronsky. She
lifted her clear, truthful eyes, and seeing his desperate face, she an-
swered hastily:
“That cannot be...forgive me.”
A moment ago, and how close she had been to him, of what impor-
tance in his life! And how aloof and remote from him she had become
now!