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In the morning Konstantin Levin left Moscow, and towards evening

he reached home. On the journey in the train he talked to his

neighbors about politics and the new railways, and, just as in

Moscow, he was overcome by a sense of confusion of ideas,

dissatisfaction with himself, shame of something or other. But

when he got out at his own station, when he saw his one-eyed

coachman, Ignat, with the collar of his coat turned up; when, in

the dim light reflected by the station fires, he saw his own

sledge, his own horses with their tails tied up, in their harness

trimmed with rings and tassels; when the coachman Ignat, as he

put in his luggage, told him the village news, that the

contractor had arrived, and that Pava had calved,-he felt that

little by little the confusion was clearing up, and the shame and

self-dissatisfaction were passing away.