“Yes, with a cuttlefish!  You know,” Levin turned to his brother, “Mihail Semyonovitch is writing a work on the digestive organs of the...”

“Now, make a muddle of it!  It doesn’t matter what about.  And the fact is, I certainly do love cuttlefish.”

“But that’s no hindrance to your loving your wife.”

“The cuttlefish is no hindrance.  The wife is the hindrance.”

“Why so?”

“Oh, you’ll see!  You care about farming, hunting,—­well, you’d better look out!”

“Arhip was here today; he said there were a lot of elks in Prudno, and two bears,” said Tchirikov.

“Well, you must go and get them without me.”

“Ah, that’s the truth,” said Sergey Ivanovitch.  “And you may say good-bye to bear-hunting for the future—­your wife won’t allow it!”

Levin smiled.  The picture of his wife not letting him go was so pleasant that he was ready to renounce the delights of looking upon bears forever.

“Still, it’s a pity they should get those two bears without you.  Do you remember last time at Hapilovo?  That was a delightful hunt!” said Tchirikov.

Levin had not the heart to disillusion him of the notion that there could be something delightful apart from her, and so said nothing.

“There’s some sense in this custom of saying good-bye to bachelor life,” said Sergey Ivanovitch.  “However happy you may be, you must regret your freedom.”

“And confess there is a feeling that you want to jump out of the window, like Gogol’s bridegroom?”

“Of course there is, but it isn’t confessed,” said Katavasov, and he broke into loud laughter.

“Oh, well, the window’s open.  Let’s start off this instant to Tver!  There’s a big she-bear; one can go right up to the lair.  Seriously, let’s go by the five o’clock!  And here let them do what they like,” said Tchirikov, smiling.

“Well, now, on my honor,” said Levin, smiling, “I can’t find in my heart that feeling of regret for my freedom.”

“Yes, there’s such a chaos in your heart just now that you can’t find anything there,” said Katavasov.  “Wait a bit, when you set it to rights a little, you’ll find it!”

“No; if so, I should have felt a little, apart from my feeling” (he could not say love before them) “and happiness, a certain regret at losing my freedom....  On the contrary, I am glad at the very loss of my freedom.”

“Awful!  It’s a hopeless case!” said Katavasov.  “Well, let’s drink to his recovery, or wish that a hundredth part of his dreams may be realized—­and that would be happiness such as never has been seen on earth!”

Soon after dinner the guests went away to be in time to be dressed for the wedding.

When he was left alone, and recalled the conversation of these bachelor friends, Levin asked himself:  had he in his heart that regret for his freedom of which they had spoken?  He smiled at the question.  “Freedom!  What is freedom for?  Happiness is only in loving and wishing her wishes, thinking her thoughts, that is to say, not freedom at all—­that’s happiness!”