This was all Levin noticed, and without wondering who it could be, he gazed absently at the coach.

In the coach was an old lady dozing in one corner, and at the window, evidently only just awake, sat a young girl holding in both hands the ribbons of a white cap.  With a face full of light and thought, full of a subtle, complex inner life, that was remote from Levin, she was gazing beyond him at the glow of the sunrise.

At the very instant when this apparition was vanishing, the truthful eyes glanced at him.  She recognized him, and her face lighted up with wondering delight.

He could not be mistaken.  There were no other eyes like those in the world.  There was only one creature in the world that could concentrate for him all the brightness and meaning of life.  It was she.  It was Kitty.  He understood that she was driving to Ergushovo from the railway station.  And everything that had been stirring Levin during that sleepless night, all the resolutions he had made, all vanished at once.  He recalled with horror his dreams of marrying a peasant girl.  There only, in the carriage that had crossed over to the other side of the road, and was rapidly disappearing, there only could he find the solution of the riddle of his life, which had weighed so agonizingly upon him of late.

She did not look out again.  The sound of the carriage-springs was no longer audible, the bells could scarcely be heard.  The barking of dogs showed the carriage had reached the village, and all that was left was the empty fields all round, the village in front, and he himself isolated and apart from it all, wandering lonely along the deserted highroad.

He glanced at the sky, expecting to find there the cloud shell he had been admiring and taking as the symbol of the ideas and feelings of that night.  There was nothing in the sky in the least like a shell.  There, in the remote heights above, a mysterious change had been accomplished.  There was no trace of shell, and there was stretched over fully half the sky an even cover of tiny and ever tinier cloudlets.  The sky had grown blue and bright; and with the same softness, but with the same remoteness, it met his questioning gaze.

“No,” he said to himself, “however good that life of simplicity and toil may be, I cannot go back to it.  I love her.”

Chapter 13

None but those who were most intimate with Alexey Alexandrovitch knew that, while on the surface the coldest and most reasonable of men, he had one weakness quite opposed to the general trend of his character.  Alexey Alexandrovitch could not hear or see a child or woman crying without being moved.  The sight of tears threw him into a state of nervous agitation, and he utterly lost all power of reflection.  The chief secretary of his department and his private secretary were aware of this, and used to warn women