Leo Tolstoy
Page 57
‘We spent three hours together on the train,’ Levin said, smiling, ‘but came away intrigued, as from a masked ball, or at least I did.’
‘Really! This way, please,’ Stepan Arkadyich said, pointing in the direction of the dining room.
The men went to the dining room and approached the table of hors d’oeuvres, set with six kinds of vodka and as many kinds of cheese with silver spreaders or without, with caviars, herring, various tinned delicacies and platters of sliced French bread.
The men stood by the fragrant vodkas and hors d’oeuvres, and the conversation between Koznyshev, Karenin and Pestsov about the russification of Poland began to die down in anticipation of dinner.
Sergei Ivanovich, who knew like no one else how to add some Attic salt[8] to the end of a most abstract and serious discussion and thereby change the mood of his interlocutors, did so now.
Alexei Alexandrovich maintained that the russification of Poland could be accomplished only as a result of higher principles, which ought to be introduced by the Russian administration.
Pestsov insisted that one nation could assimilate another only if it had a denser population.
Koznyshev acknowledged the one and the other, but with limitations.
To conclude the conversation, he said with a smile as they were leaving the drawing room:
‘Therefore there is only one way of russifying the racial minorities –by breeding as many children as possible. There’s where my brother and I are at our worst. And you married gentlemen, especially you, Stepan Arkadyich, are quite patriotic. How many do you have?’ He turned with a gentle smile to his host and held out his tiny glass to him.
Everybody laughed, Stepan Arkadyich with particular gaiety.
‘Yes, that’s the best way!’ he said, chewing some cheese and pouring some special sort of vodka into the held–out glass. The conversation indeed ceased on that joke.
‘This cheese isn’t bad. Would you care for some?’ said the host. ‘So you’ve gone back to doing exercises?’ He turned to Levin, feeling his muscle with his left hand. Levin smiled, flexed his arm, and under Stepan Arkadyich’s fingers a steely bump rose like a round cheese under the thin cloth of the frock coat.
‘What a biceps! Samson!’
‘I suppose it takes great strength to hunt bear,’ said Alexei Alexandrovich, who had very foggy notions of hunting, spreading some cheese and tearing through the gossamer–thin slice of bread.
Levin smiled.
‘None at all. On the contrary, a child can kill a bear,’ he said with a slight bow, stepping aside before the ladies who, together with the hostess, were approaching the table of hors d’oeuvres.
‘And you killed a bear, I’m told?’ said Kitty, trying in vain to spear a disobedient, slippery mushroom with her fork and shaking the lace through which her arm showed white. ‘Do you really have bears there?’ she added, half turning her lovely head towards him and smiling.
It seemed there was nothing extraordinary in what she said, yet for him, what meaning, inexpressible in words, there was in every sound, in every movement of her lips, eyes, arm, as she said it! Here was a plea for forgiveness, and trust in him, and a caress, a tender, timid caress, and a promise, and hope, and love for him, in which he could not but believe and which choked him with happiness.
‘No, we went to Tver province. On my way back I met your beau–frère* on the train, or your beau–frere’s brother–in–law,’ he said with a smile. ‘It was a funny encounter.’
* Brother–in–law.
And he told, gaily and amusingly, how, after not sleeping all night, he had burst into Alexei Alexandrovich’s compartment in his sheepskin jacket.
‘The conductor, contrary to the proverb, judged me by my clothes and wanted to throw me out. But at that point I began talking in high–flown language, and … you, too,’ he said, forgetting Karenin’s name as he turned to him, ‘wanted to chase me out at first, judging by my jacket, but then stood up for me, for which I’m very grateful.’
‘In general, passengers’ rights in the choice of seats are rather vague,’ said Alexei Alexandrovich, wiping the tips of his fingers with a handkerchief.
‘I could see you were uncertain about me,’ Levin said, smiling good–naturedly, ‘but I hastened to start an intelligent conversation, so as to smooth over my sheepskin jacket.’
Sergei Ivanovich, continuing his conversation with the hostess while listening with one ear to his brother, cast a sidelong glance at him. ‘What’s got into him tonight? Such a triumphant look,’ he thought. He did not know that Levin felt he had grown wings. Levin knew that she was listening to his words and liked listening to them. And that was the only thing that mattered to him. Not just in that room, but in all the world, there existed for him only he, who had acquired enormous significance, and she. He felt himself on a height that made his head spin, and somewhere below, far away, were all these kind, nice Karenins, Oblonskys, and the rest of the world.
Quite inconspicuously, without looking at them, but just like that, as if there were nowhere else to seat them, Stepan Arkadyich placed Levin and Kitty next to each other.
‘Well, why don’t you sit here,’ he said to Levin.
The dinner was as good as the dinner ware, of which Stepan Arkadyich was a great fancier. The soup Marie–Louise succeeded splendidly; the pirozhki, which melted in the mouth, were irreproachable. The two servants and Matvei, in white ties, went about their duties with the food and wine quite unobtrusively, quietly and efficiently. On the material side, the dinner was a success; it was no less of a success on the non–material side. The conversation, now general, now particular, never lapsed and became so lively by the end of dinner that the men got up from the table still talking and even Alexei Alexandrovich grew animated.
X
Pestsov liked to argue to the end and was not satisfied with Sergei Ivanovich’s words, the less so as he sensed the incorrectness of his own opinion.
‘I never meant population density alone,’ he said over the soup, addressing Alexei Alexandrovich, ‘but as combined with fundamentals, and not with principles.’
‘It seems to me,’ Alexei Alexandrovich replied unhurriedly and listlessly, ‘that they are one and the same thing. In my opinion, only that nation which is more highly developed can influence another, which …’
‘But that’s just the question,’ Pestsov interrupted in his bass voice, always in a hurry to speak and always seeming to put his whole soul into what he said. ‘What is this higher development supposed to be? The English, the French, the Germans – which of them stands on a higher level of development? Which will nationalize the other? We see the Rhine frenchified, yet the Germans are not on a lower level!’ he cried. ‘There’s a different law here!’
‘It seems to me that the influence always comes from the side of true education,’ Alexei Alexandrovich said, raising his eyebrows slightly.
‘But what should we take as signs of true education?’ Pestsov said.
‘I suppose that these signs are known,’ said Alexei Alexandrovich.
‘Are they fully known?’ Sergei Ivanovich put in with a subtle smile. ‘It is now recognized that a true education can only be a purely classical one; yet we see bitter disputes [9] on one side and the other, and it cannot be denied that the opposing camp has strong arguments in its favour."
‘You are a classicist, Sergei Ivanovich. May I pour you some red?’ said Stepan Arkadyich.
T am not expressing my opinion about either sort of education,’ Sergei Ivanovich said with a smile of condescension, as if to a child, and held out his glass. T am merely saying that there are strong arguments on both sides,’ he went on, turning to Alexei Alexandrovich. ‘I received a classical education, but personally I can find no place for myself in this dispute. I see no clear arguments for preferring classical studies over the modern.’
‘The natural sciences have as much pedagogical and developmental influence,’ Pestsov picked up. ‘Take astronomy alone, t
ake botany or zoology, with its system of general laws!’ ‘I cannot fully agree with that,’ Alexei Alexandrovich replied. ‘It seems to me that one cannot but acknowledge the fact that the very process of studying the forms of languages has a particularly beneficial effect upon spiritual development. Besides, it cannot be denied that the influence of classical writers is moral in the highest degree, whereas the teaching of the natural sciences is unfortunately combined with those harmful and false teachings that constitute the bane of our time.’
Sergei Ivanovich was about to say something, but Pestsov with his dense bass interrupted him. He heatedly began proving the incorrectness of this opinion. Sergei Ivanovich calmly waited his turn, obviously ready with a triumphant retort.
‘Yet,’ said Sergei Ivanovich, turning to Karenin with a subtle smile, ‘one cannot but agree that it is difficult to weigh fully all the advantages and disadvantages of both branches of learning, and the question of preference would not have been resolved so quickly and definitively if there had not been on the side of classical education that advantage you just mentioned: its moral or – disons le mot* – anti–nihilistic[10] influence.’
‘Undoubtedly.’
‘If there had not been this advantage of an anti–nihilistic influence on the side of classical learning, we would have thought more, weighed the arguments on both sides,’ Sergei Ivanovich went on with a subtle smile, ‘and left room for the one tendency and the other. But now we know that the pills of classical education contain the healing power of anti–nihilism, and we boldly offer them to our patients … And what if there is no healing power?’ he concluded, sprinkling his Attic salt.
Everybody laughed at Sergei Ivanovich’s pills, Turovtsyn especially loudly and gaily, having at last been granted that something funny which was all he was waiting for as he listened to the conversation.
Stepan Arkadyich had made no mistake in inviting Pestsov. With Pestsov intelligent conversation could not die down even for a moment. No sooner had Sergei Ivanovich ended the conversation with a joke than Pestsov started up a new one.
‘One cannot even agree,’ he said, ‘that the government has such a goal. The government is obviously guided by general considerations and remains indifferent to the influences its measures may have. For instance, the question of women’s education ought to be regarded as pernicious, yet the government opens courses and universities for women.’
* Let us say the word.
And the conversation at once jumped over to the new subject of women’s education.[11]
Alexei Alexandrovich expressed the thought that women’s education was usually confused with the question of women’s emancipation and could be considered pernicious only on that account.
‘I would suppose, on the contrary, that these two questions are inseparably connected,’ said Pestsov. ‘It’s a vicious circle. Women are deprived of rights because of their lack of education, and their lack of education comes from having no rights. We mustn’t forget that the subjection of women is so great and so old that we often refuse to comprehend the abyss that separates them from us,’ he said.
‘You said "rights",’ said Sergei Ivanovich, who had been waiting for Pestsov to stop talking, ‘meaning the rights to take on the jobs of jurors, councillors, the rights of board directors, the rights of civil servants, members of parliament…’
‘Undoubtedly.’
‘But if women can, as a rare exception, occupy these positions, it seems to me that you have used the term "rights" incorrectly. It would be more correct to say "obligations". Everyone will agree that in doing the job of a juror, a councillor, a telegraph clerk, we feel that we are fulfilling an obligation. And therefore it would be more correct to say that women are seeking obligations, and quite legitimately. And one can only sympathize with this desire of theirs to help in men’s common task.’
‘Perfectly true,’ Alexei Alexandrovich agreed. ‘The question, I suppose, consists only in whether they are capable of such obligations.’
‘They’ll most likely be very capable,’ Stepan Arkadyich put in, ‘once education spreads among them. We can see that…’
‘Remember the proverb?’ said the old prince, who had long been listening to the conversation, his mocking little eyes twinkling. ‘I can say it in front of my daughters: long hair, short.. .’[12]
‘Exactly the same was thought of the negroes before the emancipation!’ Pestsov said angrily.
‘I merely find it strange that women should seek new obligations,’ said Sergei Ivanovich, ‘while unfortunately, as we see, men usually avoid them.’
‘Obligations are coupled with rights. Power, money, honours – that’s what women are seeking,’ said Pestsov.
‘The same as if I should seek the right to be a wet nurse and get offended that women are paid for it while I’m refused,’ the old prince said.
Turovtsyn burst into loud laughter, and Sergei Ivanovich was sorry he had not said it himself. Even Alexei Alexandrovich smiled.
‘Yes, but a man can’t nurse,’ said Pestsov, ‘while a woman …’
‘No, there was an Englishman who nursed his baby on a ship,’ said the old prince, allowing himself this liberty in a conversation before his daughters.
‘There will be as many women officials as there are such Englishmen,’ Sergei Ivanovich said this time.
‘Yes, but what will a girl do if she has no family?’ Stepan Arkadyich interceded, remembering Chibisova, whom he had had in mind all the while he was sympathizing with Pestsov and supporting him.
‘If you look into the girl’s story properly, you’ll find that she left her own family, or her sister’s, where she could have had a woman’s work,’ Darya Alexandrovna said irritably, unexpectedly entering the conversation, probably guessing what girl Stepan Arkadyich had in mind.
‘But we stand for a principle, an ideal!’ Pestsov objected in a sonorous bass. ‘Women want the right to be independent, educated. They are cramped and oppressed by their awareness that it is impossible.’
‘And I’m cramped and oppressed that I can’t get hired as a wet nurse in an orphanage,’ the old prince said again, to the great joy of Turovtsyn, who laughed so much that he dropped the thick end of his asparagus into the sauce.
XI
Everybody took part in the general conversation except Kitty and Levin. At first, when the subject was the influence of one nation on another, Levin involuntarily began to consider what he had to say about it; but these thoughts, very important for him once, flashed through his head as in a dream and now had not the slightest interest for him. It even seemed strange to him that they should try so hard to talk about something that was of no use to anyone. In the same way, it would seem that what they were saying about the rights and education of women ought to have interested Kitty. How often she had thought of it, remembering Varenka, her friend abroad, and her painful dependence, how often she had wondered what would happen to her if she did not get married, and how many times she had argued about it with her sister! But now it did not interest her in the least. She and Levin were carrying on their own conversation, or not a conversation but some mysterious communication that bound them more closely together with every minute and produced in both of them a feeling of joyful fear before the unknown into which they were entering.
First, in response to Kitty’s question of how he could have seen her in a carriage last year, Levin told her how he had met her on the high road as he was walking home from the mowing.
‘It was very early in the morning. You must have just woken up. Your maman was asleep in her corner. It was a wonderful morning. I was walking along and thinking: Who is that in the coach–and–four? A fine four with little bells, and for an instant you flashed by, and I saw in the window – you were sitting like this, holding the ribbons of your bonnet with both hands and thinking terribly hard about something,’ he said, smiling. ‘How I longed to know what you were thinking about! Was it something important?’