He was sorry for himself.

But it was not love for his friends that so stirred and uplifted his heart that he could not repress the meaningless words that seemed to rise of themselves to his lips; nor was it love for a woman (he had never yet been in love) that had brought on this mood.

Love for himself, love full of hope--warm young love for all that was good in his own soul (and at that moment it seemed to him that there was nothing but good in it)--compelled him to weep and to mutter incoherent words.
Olenin was a youth who had never completed his university course, never served anywhere (having only a nominal post in some government office or other), who had squandered half his fortune and had reached the age of twenty-four without having done anything or even chosen a career.

He was what in Moscow society is termed un jeune homme.
At the age of eighteen he was free--as only rich young Russians in the 'forties who had lost their parents at an early age could be.

Neither physical nor moral fetters of any kind existed for him; he could do as he liked, lacking nothing and bound by nothing.