by Anna Karenina (tr Richard Pevear, Larissa Volokhonsky) (Penguin Classics) (epub)
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 hastened 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.
Levin told him what he had heard from Katavasov about the talk in Petersburg and, after discussing politics, told of his making the acquaintance of Metrov and going to the meeting. Lvov became very interested in that.
‘I envy you your entry into that interesting world of learning,’ he said. And, warming to the subject, he switched, as usual, to French, which suited him better. ‘True, I also have no time. My service and the children’s education deprive me of that; and besides, I’m not ashamed to say that my education is much too deficient.’
‘I don’t think so,’ Levin said with a smile, touched as always by his low opinion of himself, by no means affected out of a desire to seem or even be modest, but perfectly sincere.
‘Ah, yes! I feel now how little learning I have. For my children’s education I even have to refresh my memory a good deal and simply study. Because it’s not enough to have teachers, there must also be a supervisor, just as in your farming you need workers and an overseer. See what I’m reading?’ he pointed to Buslaev’s grammar[6] on the lectern. ‘It’s required of Misha, and it’s so difficult… Explain this to me now. He says here …’
Levin tried to explain to him that one cannot understand it but must simply learn it; but Lvov did not agree with him.
‘Yes, see how you laugh at it!’ ‘On the contrary, you can’t imagine how, by looking at you, I always learn what’s in store for me –I mean children’s education.’
‘There certainly isn’t anything to learn,’ said Lvov.
‘I only know,’ said Levin, ‘that I’ve never met better–brought–up children than yours and couldn’t wish for better myself.’
Lvov obviously wanted to restrain himself and not show his joy, but he simply beamed all over.
‘As long as they’re better than I am. That’s all I wish for. You don’t know all the trouble yet,’ he began, ‘with boys who, like mine, were neglected in that life abroad.’
‘You’ll catch up on it all. They’re such capable children. Above all –moral education. That’s what I learn from looking at your children.’
‘Moral education, you say. It’s impossible to imagine how hard it is! You’ve just prevailed on one side when something else crops up, and the struggle starts again. Without support from religion – remember, we talked about it – no father, using only his own resources, would be able to bring up a child.’
This conversation, which always interested Levin, was interrupted by the entrance of the beautiful Natalya Alexandrovna, already dressed to go out.
‘I didn’t know you were here,’ she said, obviously not only not sorry but even glad to have interrupted this, for her, long–familiar and boring conversation. ‘Well, how’s Kitty? I’m dining with you today. Now then, Arseny,’ she turned to her husband, ‘you will take the carriage …’
And a discussion began between husband and wife about how they were going to spend the day. Since the husband had to go and meet someone to do with his work, and the wife had to go to a concert and a public meeting of the South–Eastern Committee, there was much to be decided and thought over. Levin, as one of the family, had to take part in the planning. It was decided that Levin would go with Natalie to the concert and the public meeting, and from there the carriage would be sent to the office for Arseny, and he would come to fetch her and take her to Kitty’s; or, if he was still busy, he would send the carriage and Levin would go with her.
‘The man spoils me,’ he said to his wife, ‘he assures me that our children are wonderful, when I know how much bad there is in them.’
‘Arseny goes to extremes, as I always say,’ said the wife. ‘If you look for perfection, you’ll never be content. It’s true what papa says, that when we were being brought up there was one extreme – we were kept in the attic, while the parents lived on the first floor; now it’s the opposite – the parents go to the store–room and the children to the first floor. Parents mustn’t have any life now, everything’s given to the children.’
‘Why not, if they like it?’ Lvov said, smiling his handsome smile and touching her hand. ‘Anyone who didn’t know you would think you were not a mother but a stepmother.’
‘No, extremes aren’t good in anything,’ Natalie said calmly, putting his paper–knife in its proper place on the desk.
‘Well, come here now, you perfect children,’ he said to the handsome boys who came in and, after bowing to Levin, went over to their father, evidently wishing to ask him about something.
Levin would have liked to talk with them, to hear what they said to their father, but Natalie turned to him, and just then Lvov’s colleague, Makhotin, in a court uniform, came into the room to fetch him, so that they could go together to meet someone, and now an endless conversation started about Herzegovina, Princess Korzinsky, the duma, and the unexpected death of Mme Apraksin.
Levin quite forgot about the errand he had been given. He remembered it only on his way to the front hall.
‘Ah, Kitty told me to discuss something about Oblonsky with you,’ he said, when Lvov stopped on the stairs, seeing his wife and Levin out.
‘Yes, yes, maman wants us, les beaux–frères, to fall upon him,’ he said, blushing and smiling. ‘But, after all, why me?’
‘Then I’ll fall upon him,’ Natalie said, waiting in her white dog–fur rotonde for the conversation to end. ‘Well, come along!’
V
Two very interesting things were offered at the matinee concert.
One was a fantasia, King Lear on the Heath,[7] the other a quartet dedicated to the memory of Bach. Both pieces were new and in the new spirit, and Levin wanted to form his own opinion of them. Having taken his sister–in–law to her seat, he installed himself by a column and resolved to listen as closely and conscientiously as possible. He tried not to get distracted and spoil his impression by looking at the arm–waving of the white–tied conductor, which i
s always such an unpleasant distraction of musical attention, or at the ladies in hats, who had carefully tied ribbons over their ears especially for the concert, or at all the faces, either unoccupied by anything or occupied by interests quite other than music. He tried to avoid meeting musical connoisseurs and talkers, and stood with lowered eyes, listening.