"Kostia," he said, "don't harbor any animosity against me." And his voice trembled.
These were the only words which were spoken sincerely. Levin understood that they meant: "You see and know that I am miserable, and we may not meet again."
Levin understood this, and the tears came into his eyes. Once more he kissed his brother, but he could not find anything to say.
On the third day after his brother's departure. Levin went abroad. At the railway station he met Shcherbatsky, Kitty's cousin, and astonished him greatly by his melancholy.
"What is the matter?" asked Shcherbatsky.
"Well, nothing, except that there is little happiness in this world."
"Little happiness? Just come with me to Paris instead of going to some place like Mulhouse. I'll show you how gay it is."
"No, I am done for. I am ready to die."
"What a joke!" said Shcherbatsky, laughing. "I am just learning how to begin."
"I felt the same a little while ago, but now I know that my life will be short."
Levin said what he honestly felt at this time. All that he saw before him was death or its approach. But still he was just as much interested as ever in his projects of reform. It was necessary to keep his life occupied till death should come. Darkness seemed to cover everything; but by reason of this darkness he felt that the only guiding thread through its labyrinth was to occupy himself with his labors of reform, and he clung to them with all the force of his character.
