Levin still continued in the same delirious condition in which it seemed to him that he and his happiness constituted the chief and sole aim of all existence, and that he need not now think or care about anything, that everything was being done and would be done for him by others.  He had not even plans and aims for the future, he left its arrangement to others, knowing that everything would be delightful.  His brother Sergey Ivanovitch, Stepan Arkadyevitch, and the princess guided him in doing what he had to do.  All he did was to agree entirely with everything suggested to him.  His brother raised money for him, the princess advised him to leave Moscow after the wedding.  Stepan Arkadyevitch advised him to go abroad.  He agreed to everything.  “Do what you choose, if it amuses you.  I’m happy, and my happiness can be no greater and no less for anything you do,” he thought.  When he told Kitty of Stepan Arkadyevitch’s advice that they should go abroad, he was much surprised that she did not agree to this, and had some definite requirements of her own in regard to their future.  She knew Levin had work he loved in the country.  She did not, as he saw, understand this work, she did not even care to understand it.  But that did not prevent her from regarding it as a matter of great importance.  And then she knew their home would be in the country, and she wanted to go, not abroad where she was not going to live, but to the place where their home would be.  This definitely expressed purpose astonished Levin.  But since he did not care either way, he immediately asked Stepan Arkadyevitch, as though it were his duty, to go down to the country and to arrange everything there to the best of his ability with the taste of which he had so much.

“But I say,” Stepan Arkadyevitch said to him one day after he had come back from the country, where he had got everything ready for the young people’s arrival, “have you a certificate of having been at confession?”

“No.  But what of it?”

“You can’t be married without it.”

“Aie, aie, aie!” cried Levin.  “Why, I believe it’s nine years since I’ve taken the sacrament!  I never thought of it.”

“You’re a pretty fellow!” said Stepan Arkadyevitch laughing, “and you call me a Nihilist!  But this won’t do, you know.  You must take the sacrament.”

“When?  There are four days left now.”

Stepan Arkadyevitch arranged this also, and Levin had to go to confession.  To Levin, as to any unbeliever who respects the beliefs of others, it was exceedingly disagreeable to be present at and take part in church ceremonies.  At this moment, in his present softened state of feeling, sensitive to everything, this inevitable act of hypocrisy was not merely painful to Levin, it seemed to him utterly impossible.  Now, in the heyday of his highest glory, his fullest flower, he would have to be a liar or a scoffer.  He felt incapable of being either.  But though he repeatedly plied Stepan Arkadyevitch with questions as to the possibility of obtaining a certificate without actually communicating, Stepan Arkadyevitch maintained that it was out of the question.