by Leo Tolstoy
'Put on your frock coat, so that you can call on Countess Bohl on the way.'
'But is it absolutely necessary?'
'Oh, absolutely! He called on us. Well, what will it cost you? You'll go, talk about the weather for five minutes, get up and leave.'
'Well, you won't believe it, but I'm so unaccustomed to these things that it makes me ashamed. How is it? A stranger comes, sits down, stays for no reason, bothers them, upsets himself, and then leaves.'
Kitty laughed.
'You paid calls when you were a bachelor, didn't you?' she said.
'I did, but I was always ashamed, and now I'm so unaccustomed to it that, by God, I'd rather go two days without dinner than pay this call. Such shame! I keep thinking they'll be offended and say: "Why come for no reason?'"
'No, they won't be offended. I can answer for that,' said Kitty, looking into his face and laughing. She took his hand. 'Well, goodbye... Please
go-'
He was just about to kiss her hand and leave when she stopped him.
'Kostya, you know, I only have fifty roubles left.'
'Well, then I'll go and get some from the bank. How much?' he said, with an expression of displeasure familiar to her.
'No, wait.' She held on to his hand. 'Let's talk, this bothers me. I don't think I spend on anything unnecessary, but the money just goes. We're doing something wrong.'
'Not at all,' he said, clearing his throat and looking at her from under his eyebrows.
She knew that clearing of his throat. It was a sign that he was strongly displeased, not with her, but with himself. He was indeed displeased, not that a lot of money had been spent, but that he was reminded of something which he, knowing that things were not right, had wished to forget.
'I've told Sokolov to sell the wheat and take money in advance for the mill. In any case, we'll have money.'
'No, but I'm afraid it's generally too much ...'
'Not at all, not at all,' he repeated. 'Well, goodbye, darling.'
'No, really, I'm sometimes so sorry I listened to mama. It was so good in the country! And here I've worn you all out, and we're spending money...'
'Not at all, not at all. Not once since I've been married have I said it would have been better otherwise than it is ...'
'Truly?' she said, looking into his eyes.
He had said it without thinking, just to comfort her. But when he glanced at her and saw those dear, truthful eyes fixed questioningly on him, he repeated the same thing from the bottom of his heart. 'I'm decidedly forgetting her,' he thought. And he remembered what so soon awaited them.
'Soon now? How do you feel?' he whispered, taking both her hands.
'I've thought it so many times that now I don't think or know anything.'
'And you're not afraid?'
She smiled scornfully.
'Not a bit,' she said.
'So, if anything happens, I'm at Katavasov's.'
'No, nothing will happen, don't even think of it. I'll go for a stroll on the boulevard with papa. We'll stop at Dolly's. I'll be expecting you before dinner. Ah, yes! Do you know that Dolly's situation is becoming quite impossible? She's in debt all around, and she has no money. Yesterday I talked with mama and Arseny' (so she called Prince Lvov, her sister's husband), 'and we decided to set him and you on Stiva. This is quite impossible. One can't talk to papa about it ... But if you and he...'
'But what can we do?' asked Levin.
'Still, while you're at Arseny's, talk to him; he'll tell you what we decided.'
'Well, with Arseny I'll agree to everything beforehand. I'll call on him. By the way, if I do go to the concert, I'll go with Natalie. Well, goodbye.'
At the porch Kuzma, the old servant from his bachelor days, who was handling their town arrangements, stopped him.
'Beau' (this was the left shaft-horse, brought from the country) 'has been re-shod, but he still limps,' he said. 'What are your orders?'
At the beginning of their life in Moscow, Levin had concerned himself with the horses he brought from the country. He had wanted to arrange that part as well and as cheaply as possible; but it turned out that keeping his own horses was more expensive than hiring, and they hired cabs anyway.
'Send for the horse doctor, it may be a sore.'
'Well, and for Katerina Alexandrovna?' asked Kuzma.
Levin was no longer struck now, as he had been at the beginning of their life in Moscow, that to go from Vozdvizhenka to Sivtsev Vrazhek it was necessary to hitch a pair of strong horses to a heavy carriage, take that carriage less than a quarter of a mile through snowy mush, and let it stand there for four hours, having paid five roubles for it. Now it seemed natural to him.
'Tell the cabby to bring a second pair for our carriage,' he said.
'Yes, sir.'
And having solved so simply and easily, thanks to town conditions, a difficulty which in the country would have called for so much personal effort and attention, Levin went out on the porch, hailed a cab, got into it and drove to Nikitskaya. On the way he no longer thought about money, but reflected on how he was going to make the acquaintance of a Petersburg scholar, a specialist in sociology, and talk to him about his book.
Only during his very first days in Moscow had Levin been struck by those unproductive but inevitable expenses, so strange for a country-dweller, that were demanded of him on all sides. Now he had grown used to them. What had happened to him in this respect was what they say happens with drunkards: the first glass is a stake, the second a snake, and from the third on it's all little birdies. When Levin changed the first hundred-rouble note to buy liveries for his footman and hall porter, he calculated that these liveries - totally useless but inevitable and necessary, judging by the princess's and Kitty's astonishment at his hint that they might be dispensed with - would cost as much as two summer workers, meaning about three hundred workdays from Easter to Advent, each one a day of hard work from early morning till late in the evening - and that hundred-rouble note still went down like a stake. But the next one, broken to buy provisions for a family dinner that had cost twenty-eight roubles, though it had called up in Levin the recollection that twenty-eight roubles meant about seventy-two bushels of oats which, with much sweating and groaning, had been mowed, bound, carted, threshed, winnowed, sifted and bagged - this next one all the same had gone a little more easily. And now the notes he broke had long ceased to call up such thoughts and flew off like little birdies. Whether the labour spent in acquiring money corresponded to the pleasure afforded by what was bought with it was a long-lost consideration. The economic consideration that there was a certain price below which a certain kind of grain could not be sold, was also forgotten. His rye, the price of which he had insisted on for such a long time, was sold at fifty kopecks less per measure than had been offered a month earlier. Even the consideration that with such expenses it would be impossible to get through the year without going into debt no longer had any significance. Only one thing was required: to have money in the bank, without asking where it came from, so as always to know how to pay for the next day's beef. And so far he had observed that consideration: he had always had money in the bank. But now the money in the bank had come to an end and he did not quite know where to get more. It was this that upset him for a moment when Kitty reminded him about money; but he had no time to think of it. He drove on, thinking about Katavasov and the impending meeting with Metrov.
III
During his stay in Moscow Levin had again become close with his former university friend, Professor Katavasov, whom he had not seen since his marriage. He liked Katavasov for the clarity and simplicity of his world-view. Levin thought that the clarity of Katavasov's world-view came from the poverty of his nature, and Katavasov thought that the inconsistency of Levin's thought came from a lack of mental discipline; but Levin liked Katavasov's clarity, and Katavasov liked the abundance of Levin's undisciplined thoughts, and they loved to get together and argue.
Levin read some parts of
his writing to Katavasov, and he liked them. The day before, meeting Levin at a public lecture, Katavasov had told him that the famous Metrov, whose article Levin had liked so much, was in Moscow and was very interested in what Katavasov had told him about Levin's work, and that Metrov would be calling on him the next day at eleven o'clock and would be very glad to make his acquaintance.
'You're decidedly improving, my friend, it's nice to see it,' said Katavasov, meeting Levin in the small drawing room. 'I heard the bell and thought: can it be he's on time?... Well, how about these Montenegrins? Born fighters.'[1]
'What about them?' asked Levin.
Katavasov told him the latest news in a few words, then, going into the study, introduced Levin to a short, stocky man of very pleasant appearance. This was Metrov. The conversation dwelt for a brief time on politics and on what view was taken of the latest events in the highest Petersburg spheres. Metrov told them the words, which he had from a reliable source, supposedly uttered on that occasion by the emperor and one of his ministers. Katavasov had heard, also reliably, that the emperor had said something quite different. Levin tried to conceive of circumstances in which both things could have been said, and the conversation on that subject ceased.
'So he's almost finished a book on the natural conditions of the worker in relation to the land,' said Katavasov. 'I'm no expert, but what I liked about it, as a natural scientist, was that he doesn't consider mankind as something outside zoological laws, but, on the contrary, regards it as dependent on the environment and looks for the laws of development within that dependence.' 'That is very interesting,' said Metrov.
'I actually began writing a book on agriculture, but involuntarily, in concerning myself with the main tool of farming, the worker,' Levin said, blushing, 'I arrived at totally unexpected results.'
And carefully, as if testing the ground, Levin began to explain his view. He knew that Metrov had written an article against the commonly accepted political-economic theory, but how far he could expect him to be sympathetic to his new views he did not know and could not guess from the scholar's calm and intelligent face.
'But what do you see as the special properties of the Russian worker?' asked Metrov. 'His zoological properties, so to speak, or the conditions in which he finds himself?'
Levin saw that this question already implied a thought he disagreed with; but he continued to explain his own thought, which was that the Russian worker had a view of the land that differed completely from that of other peoples. And to prove this point he hastened to add that in his opinion this view of the Russian people came from their awareness of being called upon to populate the enormous unoccupied spaces of the east.
'It is easy to be led into error by drawing conclusions about a people's general calling,' Metrov said, interrupting Levin. 'The worker's condition will always depend on his relation to the land and to capital.'
And not letting Levin finish his thought, Metrov began explaining to him the particularity of his own theory.
What the particularity of his theory was Levin did not understand, because he did not bother to understand; he saw that Metrov, just like the others, despite his article in which he refuted the teaching of the economists, still regarded the position of the Russian worker only from the point of view of capital, wages and income. Though he had to admit that in the greater part of Russia, the eastern part, income was still zero, that for nine-tenths of the Russian population of eighty million wages were only at subsistence level, and that capital did not exist otherwise than as the most primitive tools - he still regarded all workers from that point of view alone, though he disagreed with economists on many points and had his own new theory about wages, which he explained to Levin.
Levin listened reluctantly and began by objecting. He wanted to interrupt Metrov in order to tell him his thought, which in his opinion would make further explanations superfluous. But then, convinced that they looked at the matter so differently that they would never understand each other, he stopped contradicting and merely listened. Despite the fact that he was no longer interested in what Metrov was saying, he nevertheless experienced a certain satisfaction in listening to him. It flattered his vanity that such a learned man was telling him his thoughts so eagerly, with such attention and confidence in his knowledge of the subject, sometimes referring to whole aspects of the matter by a single allusion. He ascribed it to his own merit, unaware that Metrov, having talked about it with everyone around him, was especially eager to talk on the subject with each new person, and generally talked eagerly with everyone about the subject, which interested him but was as yet unclear to him.
'We're going to be late, though,' said Katavasov, glancing at his watch, as soon as Metrov finished his explanation.
'Yes, today there's a meeting of the Society of Amateurs to commemorate Svintich's fiftieth birthday,'[2] Katavasov replied to Levin's question. 'Pyotr Ivanych and I intend to go. I promised to speak about his works on zoology. Come with us, it's very interesting.'
'Yes, in fact it's time,' said Metrov. 'Come with us, and from there to my place, if you wish. I'd like very much to hear your work.'
'No, really. It's still so unfinished. But I'll be glad to go to the meeting.'
'Say, my friend, have you heard? They've proposed a separate opinion,' said Katavasov, who was putting on his tailcoat in the other room.
And a conversation began on the university question.[3]
The university question was a very important event in Moscow that winter. Three old professors on the council had not accepted the opinion of the young ones; the young ones had proposed a separate opinion. That opinion, in the view of some, was terrible, and, in the view of others, was very simple and correct, and so the professors had split into two parties.
Some, including Katavasov, saw falsity, denunciation and deceit in the opposing side; the others - puerility and disrespect for authority. Levin, though he did not belong to the university, had already heard and talked about this matter several times since coming to Moscow and had formed his own opinion about it. He took part in the conversation, which continued outside as the three men walked to the old university building.
The meeting had already begun ... Around the baize-covered table at which Katavasov and Metrov seated themselves, six men were sitting, and one of them, bending close to a manuscript, was reading something.
Levin sat in one of the vacant chairs that stood around the table and in a whisper asked a student who was sitting there what was being read. The student looked Levin over with resentment and said:
'The biography.'
Though Levin was not interested in the scientist's biography, he listened involuntarily and learned some interesting and new things about the life of the famous man.
When the reader had finished, the chairman thanked him and read a poem by the poet Ment,[4] sent to him for this jubilee, with a few words of gratitude to the author. Then Katavasov, in his loud, piercing voice, read his note on the learned works of the man being honoured.
When Katavasov finished, Levin looked at his watch, saw that it was already past one o'clock, and reflected that he would not have time to read his work to Metrov before the concert, and besides he no longer wanted to. During the reading he had also been thinking about their conversation. It was now clear to him that, while Metrov's thought might be important, his own thoughts were also important; these thoughts might be clarified and lead to something only if each of them worked separately on his chosen way, and nothing could come from communicating these thoughts to each other. And, having decided to decline Metrov's invitation, Levin went over to him at the end of the meeting. Metrov introduced Levin to the chairman, with whom he was discussing the political news. Metrov told the chairman the same thing he had told Levin, and Levin made the same observations he had already made that morning, but for diversity offered a new opinion that had just occurred to him. After that the talk on the university question started up again. Since Levin had already heard it all, he hasten
ed to tell Metrov that he was sorry he could not accept his invitation, made his bows and went to see Lvov.
IV
Lvov, who was married to Kitty's sister Natalie, had spent all his life in the capitals and abroad, where he had been educated and served as a diplomat.
A year ago he had left the diplomatic service, not owing to unpleasantness (he never had any unpleasantness with anyone), and gone to serve in the palace administration in Moscow, in order to give the best education to his two boys.
Despite the sharpest contrast in habits and views, and the fact that Lvov was older than Levin, they had become very close that winter and grown to love each other.
Lvov was at home, and Levin went in without being announced.
Lvov, wearing a belted house jacket and suede boots, was sitting in an armchair, a pince-nez with blue lenses on his nose, reading a book propped on a lectern, carefully holding out in a shapely hand a cigar half turned to ash.
His handsome, fine, and still-young face, to which his curly, shining silver hair lent a still more thoroughbred appearance, brightened with a smile when he saw Levin.
'Excellent! And I was about to send to you. Well, how's Kitty? Sit here, it's more comfortable ...' He got up and moved a rocking chair over. 'Have you read the latest circular letter in the Journal de St-Petersbourg?[5] I find it splendid,' he said with a slight French accent.
