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noticed that she was not in the least, not in the very least, disturbed by
the idea of the trousseau. “Then it must be all right,” he thought.
“Oh, I know nothing about it; I only said what I should like,” he
said apologetically.
“We’ll talk it over, then. The benediction and announcement can
take place now. That’s very well.”
The princess went up to her husband, kissed him, and would have
gone away, but he kept her, embraced her, and tenderly as a young
lover, kissed her several times, smiling. The old people were obviously
muddled for a moment, and did not quite know whether it was they
who were in love again or their daughter. When the prince and the
princess had gone, Levin went up to his betrothed and took her hand.
He was self-possessed now and could speak, and he had a great deal
he wanted to tell her. But he said not at all what he had to say.
“How I knew it would be so! I never hoped for it; and yet in my
heart I was always sure,” he said. “I believe that it was ordained.”
“And I!” she said. “Even when....” She stopped and went on again,
looking at him resolutely with her truthful eyes, “Even when I thrust
from me my happiness. I always loved you alone, but I was carried
away. I ought to tell you.... Can you forgive that?”
“Perhaps it was for the best. You will have to forgive me so much.
I ought to tell you...”
This was one of the things he had meant to speak about. He had
resolved from the first to tell her two things—that he was not chaste as
she was, and that he was not a believer. It was agonizing, but he
considered he ought to tell her both these facts.
“No, not now, later!” he said.
“Very well, later, but you must certainly tell me. I’m not afraid of
anything. I want to know everything. Now it is settled.”
He added: “Settled that you’ll take me whatever I may be—you
won’t give me up? Yes?”
“Yes, yes.”
Their conversation was interrupted by Mademoiselle Linon, who
with an affected but tender smile came to congratulate her favorite
pupil. Before she had gone, the servants came in with their congratu-
lations. Then relations arrived, and there began that state of blissful
absurdity from which Levin did not emerge till the day after his wed-
ding. Levin was in a continual state of awkwardness and discomfort,
but the intensity of his happiness went on all the while increasing. He
felt continually that a great deal was being expected of him—what, he
did not know; and he did everything he was told, and it all gave him
happiness. He had thought his engagement would have nothing about
it like others, that the ordinary conditions of engaged couples would
spoil his special happiness; but it ended in his doing exactly as other
people did, and his happiness being only increased thereby and be-
coming more and more special, more and more unlike anything that
had ever happened.
“Now we shall have sweetmeats to eat,” said Mademoiselle
Linon— and Levin drove off to buy sweetmeats.
“Well, I’m very glad,” said Sviazhsky. “I advise you to get the
bouquets from Fomin’s.”
“Oh, are they wanted?” And he drove to Fomin’s.
His brother offered to lend him money, as he would have so many
expenses, presents to give....
“Oh, are presents wanted?” And he galloped to Foulde’s.
And at the confectioner’s, and at Fomin’s, and at Foulde’s he saw
that he was expected; that they were pleased to see him, and prided
themselves on his happiness, just as every one whom he had to do with