On getting back from the sick-room to their own two rooms for the
night, Levin sat with hanging head not knowing what to do. Not
to speak of supper, of preparing for bed, of considering what
they were going to do, he could not even talk to his wife; he was
ashamed to. Kitty, on the contrary, was more active than usual.
She was even livelier than usual. She ordered supper to be
brought, herself unpacked their things, and herself helped to
make the beds, and did not even forget to sprinkle them with
Persian powder. She showed that alertness, that swiftness of
reflection comes out in men before a battle, in conflict, in the
dangerous and decisive moments of life--those moments when a man
shows once and for all his value, and that all his past has not
been wasted but has been a preparation for these moments.
Everything went rapidly in her hands, and before it was twelve
o'clock all their things were arranged cleanly and tidily in her
rooms, in such a way that the hotel rooms seemed like home: the
beds were made, brushes, combs, looking-glasses were put out,
table napkins were spread.
Levin felt that it was unpardonable to eat, to sleep, to talk
even now, and it seemed to him that every movement he made was
unseemly. She arranged the brushes, but she did it all so that
there was nothing shocking in it.
They could neither of them eat, however, and for a long while
they could not sleep, and did not even go to bed.
"I am very glad I persuaded him to receive extreme unction
tomorrow," she said, sitting in her dressing jacket before her
folding looking glass, combing her soft, fragrant hair with a
fine comb. "I have never seen it, but I know, mamma has told me,
there are prayers said for recovery."
"Do you suppose he can possibly recover?" said Levin, watching a
slender tress at the back of her round little head that was
continually hidden when she passed the comb through the front.
"I asked the doctor; he said he couldn't live more than three
days. But can they be sure? I'm very glad, anyway, that I
persuaded him," she said, looking askance at her husband through
her hair. "Anything is possible," she added with that peculiar,
rather sly expression that was always in her face when she spoke
of religion.
Since their conversation about religion when they were engaged
neither of them had ever started a discussion of the subject, but
she performed all the ceremonies of going to church, saying her
prayers, and so on, always with the unvarying conviction that
this ought to be so. In spite of his assertion to the contrary,
she was firmly persuaded that he was as much a Christian as she,
and indeed a far better one; and all that he said about it was
simply one of his absurd masculine freaks, just as he would say
about her _broderie anglaise_ that good people patch holes, but
that she cut them on purpose, and so on.