EIGHTY-NINE

 

 

Chapter 13

 

 

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LEVIN remembered a recent scene between Dolly and her children. Left by themselves, the children had started cooking raspberries over a candle, and pouring jets of milk into their mouths. When their mother caught them at this pursuit, she began in Levin’s presence to impress on them how much trouble what they were wasting had cost grown-up people, that that trouble had been taken for them, that if they broke cups they would not have anything to drink tea out of and if they spilt milk they would not have anything to eat and would die of hunger.

 

And Levin was struck by the quiet dull disbelief with which the children listened to these remarks from their mother. They were only grieved that their amusing game had been ended, and they did not believe a word of what she was saying. And they could not believe it, because they could not imagine the whole volume of all they consumed, and therefore could not conceive that what they were destroying was the very thing they lived on.

 

‘That’s quite a different matter,’ they thought. ‘And not in the least interesting or important, because those things always have been and always will be. It is always the same thing over and over again. There is no need for us to think about that, it’s all ready for us; but we want to think out something of our own invention and new. Now we’ve thought of putting raspberries in a cup and cooking them over a candle, and of pouring milk into each other’s mouths like fountains. That is amusing and new, and not at all worse than drinking out of cups.’

 

‘Don’t we, and didn’t I, do just the same, when intellectually I sought for the meaning of the forces of nature and the purpose of human life?’ he went on thinking.

 

‘And don’t all the philosophic theories do the same, when by ways of thought strange and unnatural to man they lead him to a knowledge of what he knew long ago, and knows so surely that without it he could not live? Is it not evident in the development of every philosopher’s theory that he knows in advance, as indubitably as the peasant Theodore and not a whit more clearly than he, the chief meaning of life, and only wishes, by a questionable intellectual process, to return to what every one knows?

 

‘Supposing now that the children were left alone to procure or make cups for themselves and to milk the cows and so on. Would they play tricks? No, they would die of hunger! Suppose we, with our passions and thoughts, were left without the conception of God, a Creator, and without a conception of what is good, and without an explanation of moral evil!

 

‘Try to build up anything without these conceptions!

 

‘We destroy because we have our fill spiritually. We are children indeed!

 

‘Whence comes the joyful knowledge I have in common with the peasant, and which alone gives me peace of mind? Where did I get it?

 

‘I, educated in the conception of God, as a Christian, having filled my life with the spiritual blessings Christianity gave me, brimful of these blessings and living by them, I, like a child, not understanding them, destroy them — that is, I wish to destroy that by which I live. But as soon as an important moment of life comes, like children when they are cold and hungry, I go to Him, and even less than the children whose mother scolds them for their childish mischief do I feel that my childish attempts to kick because I am filled should be reckoned against me.

 

‘Yes, what I know, I know not by my reason but because it has been given to me, revealed to me, and I know it in my heart by faith in the chief thing which the Church proclaims.

 

‘The Church? The Church?’ Levin repeated to himself. He turned over, and leaning on his elbows began looking at a herd of cattle in the distance approaching the river on the other side.

 

‘But can I believe in all that the Church professes?’ he asked himself, testing himself by everything which might destroy his present peace of mind. He purposely thought of those teachings of the Church which always seemed most strange to him, and that tried him. ‘The Creation. — But how do I account for existence? By existence! By nothing! — The devil and sin? — And how do I explain evil? . . . A Saviour? . . .

 

‘But I know nothing, nothing! And can know nothing but what is told me and to everybody.’

 

And it now seemed to him that there was not one of the dogmas of the Church which could disturb the principal thing — faith in God, in goodness, as the sole vocation of man.

 

Each of the Church’s doctrines might be represented by faith in serving truth rather than serving one’s personal needs. And each of them not only did not infringe that belief but was necessary for the fulfilment of the chief miracle ever recurring on earth: the possibility of every one, millions of most diverse people, sages and idiots, children and old men, peasants, Lvov, Kitty, beggars and kings, indubitably understanding one and the same thing, and forming that life of the spirit which alone is worth living for and which alone we prize.

 

Lying on his back he was now gazing at the high cloudless sky. ‘Don’t I know that that is infinite space, and not a rounded vault? But however I may screw my eyes and strain my sight, I cannot help seeing it round and limited, and despite my knowledge of it as limitless space I am indubitably right when I see a firm blue vault, and more right than when I strain to see beyond it.’

 

Levin ceased to think, and only as it were hearkened to mystic voices that seemed to be joyously and earnestly discussing something.

 

‘Can this really be faith?’ he wondered, afraid to believe in his happiness. ‘My God, I thank Thee!’ he uttered, repressing his rising sobs, and wiping away with both hands the tears that filled his eyes.

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter 14

 

 

 

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LEVIN looked straight before him, and saw the herd of cattle and then his trap and his horse Raven and the coachman who, having driven up to the cattle, was speaking to the herdsman; after that, close by, he heard the sound of wheels and the snorting of a well-fed horse; but he was so engrossed in his thoughts that he did not wonder why the coachman was coming for him.

 

That occurred to him only when the coachman drove up and called to him.

 

‘The mistress has sent me! Your brother and another gentleman have come!’

 

Levin got into the trap and took the reins.

 

As if just awakened from a dream, it was long before he could collect his thoughts. He looked at the well-fed horse, lathered between the legs and on its neck where the reins chafed it — looked at Ivan the coachman sitting beside him, and remembered that he had been expecting his brother, that his wife was probably disturbed at his long absence, and he tried to guess who the visitor that had come with his brother might be. His brother, his wife, and the unknown visitor appeared in a different light to him now. It seemed to him that his relations with every one would now be changed. ‘There will be no disputes; with Kitty never any quarrels again; with the visitor, whoever he may be, I shall be amiable and kind; and with the servants, with Ivan, everything will be different.’

 

Tightly holding in the good horse, who snorted impatiently and pulled at the reins, Levin kept turning to glance at Ivan, who sat beside him not knowing what to do with his unoccupied hands and continually pushing down his shirt as the wind blew it out. Levin tried to think of some pretext for beginning a conversation with him. He wanted to say that it was a pity Ivan had pulled the saddle-girth so tight, but that would have sounded like a reproof and Levin desired an amicable conversation. But he could think of nothing else to say.

 

‘Bear to the right, sir, there’s a stump there,’ said the coachman, taking hold of the rein.

 

‘Please leave it alone and don’t teach me!’ said Levin, annoyed at the coachman’s interference. Just as it always did, interference vexed him, and he immediately felt how wrong had been his conclusion that his spiritual condition could at once alter his manner when confronted with reality.

 

When they were still a quarter of a verst from the house, Levin saw Grisha and Tanya running toward him.

 

‘Uncle Kostya! Mama is coming and Grandpapa and Sergius Ivanich, and some one else!’ they cried, clambering into the trap.

 

‘Who else?’

 

‘An awfully dreadful man! And he goes like that with his hands,’ said Tanya, standing up in the trap and mimicking Katavasov.

 

‘Young or old?’ asked Levin with a laugh, as Tanya’s gestures reminded him of some one.

 

‘Oh, if only it is not some one disagreeable!’ he thought.

 

As soon as he had turned the corner of the road and saw those who were approaching he at once recognized Katavasov in a straw hat, waving his arms just as Tanya had represented.

 

Katavasov was very fond of talking about philosophy, having a conception of it which he had acquired from naturalists who had never studied it, and in Moscow Levin had latterly had many disputes with him.

 

One of those disputes, in which Katavasov evidently thought he had been the victor, was the first thing Levin remembered when he recognized him.

 

‘But I will not now on any account dispute or express my opinions lightly,’ he thought.

 

After alighting from the trap and welcoming his brother and Katavasov, Levin asked where Kitty was.

 

‘She has taken Mitya to Kolok,’ which was a wood not far from the house. ‘She wanted to let him sleep there; it’s so hot in the house,’ said Dolly. Levin always advised his wife not to take the child into the wood, considering it dangerous, and this news was disagreeable to him.

 

‘She wanders about with him from place to place,’ said the old Prince with a smile. ‘I advised her to try taking him to the ice-cellar!’

 

‘She meant to come to the apiary. She thought you were there. We are going there,’ said Dolly.

 

‘Well, and what are you doing?’ asked Koznyshev, lagging behind with his brother.

 

‘Oh, nothing particular. Busy with the estate as usual,’ answered Levin. ‘Have you come for a good stay? We expected you long ago.’

 

‘For about a fortnight. I had a lot to do in Moscow.’

 

At these words the brothers’ eyes met, and Levin — in spite of the desire he always felt, and now more than ever, for friendly and especially for simple relations with his brother — felt ill at ease while looking at him. He dropped his own eyes, not knowing what to say.

 

Mentally reviewing the subjects that might interest Koznyshev and divert him from the Serbian war and the Slavonic Question, at which he had hinted when mentioning his work in Moscow, Levin asked about Koznyshev’s book.

 

‘Have any reviews of your book appeared?’ he asked.

 

Koznyshev smiled at the obvious intent of the question.

 

‘No one concerns himself with it, and I least of all,’ he replied. ‘Look there, Darya Alexandrovna! It’s going to rain,’ he added, pointing with his umbrella to some white clouds that had appeared above the aspen trees.

 

And those words were enough to re-establish between the brothers the not exactly hostile, but cold, relations which Levin so wished to avoid.

 

Levin joined Katavasov.

 

‘How right you were to come!’ he said.

 

‘I have long been meaning to! Now we’ll have some talks, and we’ll see! Have you read Spencer?’

 

‘No, I have not finished him,’ replied Levin. ‘However, I don’t need him now.’

 

‘How’s that? That’s interesting ! Why not?’

 

‘Well, I have finally convinced myself that I shan’t find solutions of the questions I am concerned about in him, or in people of his kind. Now . . .’

 

But he was suddenly struck by the calm and cheerful expression of Katavasov’s face, and felt so sorry to lose the spiritual condition which he was evidently spoiling by his conversation, that recollecting his resolution he ceased speaking.

 

‘However, we’ll have a talk later on,’ he said. ‘If we are going to the apiary, it’s this way, along this path,’ he added, addressing the whole party.

 

When by the narrow footpath they had reached the unmown glade covered on one side by a thick growth of bright John-and-Maries, with tall spreading bushes of dark green sneezewort between them, Levin asked his guests to sit down in the deep cool shade of the young aspens — upon a bench and some tree stumps specially arranged for visitors to the apiary who might be afraid of bees — while he went to the hut to fetch bread, cucumbers, and fresh honey for the grown-up people as well as for the children.

 

Trying to make as few brusque movements as possible and listening to the bees that flew past him more and more often, he went along the path to the hut. At the very entrance a bee became entangled in his beard and began buzzing, but he carefully liberated it. He went into the shady lobby and from a peg in the wall took down his veil, put it on, and with his hands deep in his pockets entered the fenced-in apiary where — standing in regular rows and tied with bast to stakes — in the middle of a space where the grass had been mown, stood the old beehives [hollowed-out stumps of trees placed upright], every one familiar to him, and each with a history of its own, while along the wattle fence stood the new hives with the swarms hived that year. In front of the hives, flickering before his eyes and circling and fluttering over the same spot, played bees and drones, and between them flew the working bees always to or from the wood with the blossoming lime trees, fetching and bringing back their loads.

 

In his ears rang incessantly a variety of sounds: now of a busy working bee flying swiftly past, now of a buzzing idle drone, then of the excited bee sentinels guarding their treasure from a foe and prepared to sting. On the other side of the fence an old man was making a hoop and did not notice Levin, who stopped in the middle of the apiary without calling him.

 

He was glad of this opportunity to be alone and recover from reality, which had already so lowered his spiritual condition.

 

He remembered that he had already got angry with Ivan, treated his brother coldly, and spoken heedlessly to Katavasov.

 

‘Can it possibly have been but a momentary mood that will pass without leaving a trace?’ he wondered.

 

But at that instant returning into that mood, he felt with joy that something new and important had occurred within him. Reality had temporarily veiled the spiritual tranquillity he had found, but it remained with him.

 

Just as the bees, now circling round him, threatening him and distracting his attention, deprived him of complete physical calm and forced him to shrink to avoid them, so the cares that had beset him from the moment he got into the trap had deprived him of spiritual freedom; but that continued only so long as they surrounded him. And as, in spite of the bees, his physical powers remained intact, so his newly-realized spiritual powers were intact also.

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter 15

 

 

 

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‘KOSTYA! Do you know with whom Sergius Ivanich travelled coming here?’ said Dolly, after she had distributed cucumbers and honey among the children. ‘With Vronsky! He is on his way to Serbia.’

 

‘Yes, and not alone, but is taking a squadron at his own expense!’ said Katavasov.

 

‘That is like him,’ said Levin. ‘But are Volunteers really still going?’ he added with a glance at Koznyshev.

 

Koznyshev did not reply, but with the blunt side of a knife carefully extracted from a bowl in which lay a wedge of white honeycomb a live bee that had stuck in the running honey.

 

‘Yes, I should think so! You should have seen what went on at the station yesterday!’ said Katavasov, audibly biting into a cucumber.

 

‘Well, how is one to understand it? In heaven’s name, Sergius Ivanich, explain to me where all these Volunteers are going and whom they are fighting,’ said the old Prince, evidently continuing a conversation that had been started during Levin’s absence.

 

‘The Turks!’ answered Koznyshev, quietly smiling, having extracted the bee which, black with honey, moved its legs helplessly as he shifted it from the knife to a firm aspen leaf.

 

‘But who has declared war on Turkey? Ivan Ivanich Ragozov and the Countess Lydia Ivanovna, assisted by Madame Stahl?’

 

‘No one has declared war, but people sympathize with their suffering neighbours and wish to help them,’ replied Koznyshev.

 

‘But the Prince is not talking of help,’ interposed Levin, taking his father-in-law’s side, ‘but of war! He says that private people cannot take part in war without the consent of the Government.’

 

‘Kostya, look! Here’s a bee! Really, we shall get stung!’ cried Dolly, waving away a wasp.

 

‘But that’s not a bee, it’s a wasp,’ said Levin.

 

‘Well, and what is your theory?’ asked Katavasov with a smile, evidently challenging Levin to a discussion. ‘Why have private individuals no right?’

 

‘My theory is this: On the one hand war is such a bestial, cruel and terrible affair, that no single man — not to speak of a Christian — can take on himself personally the responsibility for beginning a war. It can only be done by a Government, which is summoned to it and is brought to it inevitably. On the other hand, by law and by common sense, in the affairs of State, and especially in the matter of war, citizens renounce their personal will.’

 

Koznyshev and Katavasov, ready with their rejoinders, began speaking both together.

 

‘That’s just the point, my dear fellow, that cases may arise when the Government does not fulfil the will of its citizens and then Society announces its own will,’ said Katavasov.

 

But Koznyshev evidently did not approve of this reply. He frowned at Katavasov’s words and said something different.

 

‘It is a pity you put the question that way. There is no declaration of war in this case, but simply an expression of human, Christian feeling. Our brothers by blood and religion are being killed, Well, say they were not even our brothers or co-religionists, but simply children, women, and old people; one’s feelings are outraged, and Russians hasten to help to stop those horrors. Imagine that you were going along a street and saw a tipsy man beating a woman or a child; I think you would not stop to ask whether war had or had not been declared against that man, but you would rush at him and defend the victim!’

 

‘But I would not kill the man,’ replied Levin.

 

‘Yes, you would.’

 

‘I don’t know. If I saw such a thing, I might yield to my instinctive feeling; I can’t say beforehand. But there is no such instinctive feeling about the oppression of the Slavs, nor can there be.’

 

‘Perhaps you have none, but others have,’ said Koznyshev with a dissatisfied frown. ‘Among the people there live traditions of Orthodox Christians suffering under the yoke of the “Infidel Mussulman.” The people have heard of their brothers’ sufferings, and have spoken out.’

 

‘Perhaps,’ said Levin evasively, ‘but I don’t see it. I myself am one of the people, and I don’t feel it.’

 

‘Nor do I,’ said the Prince. ‘I was living abroad and read the papers, and must own that I could not at all understand why, even before the Bulgarian atrocities, all Russians suddenly grew so fond of their Slavonic brothers, while I don’t feel any love for them. I was much grieved and thought I was a monster or that the Karlsbad waters had that effect on me! But on getting back I was relieved, for I see that there are others besides me who are only interested in Russia and not in their brother-Slavs. Constantine is one.’

 

‘Personal opinions don’t count in this matter,’ said Koznyshev. ‘It is not an affair of personal opinions, when all Russia — the people — has expressed its will.’

 

‘But, forgive me, I don’t see it. The people know nothing about it,’ said the Prince.

 

‘Oh, Papa! Don’t they? And on Sunday, in church?’ remarked Dolly, who had been following the conversation. ‘Please bring a towel,’ she said to the old man, who was looking smilingly at the children. ‘It’s impossible that all . . .’

 

‘But what was there in church on Sunday? The priest was ordered to read it. He did so. The people understood nothing, but they sighed as they always do during a sermon,’ continued the Prince. ‘They were told that there would be a collection in the church for a soul-saving object, so they each took out a kopek and gave it, but what it was for — they did not know!’

 

‘The people can’t help knowing. A consciousness of their destiny always exists in the people, and at moments like the present it becomes clear to them,’ said Koznyshev positively, glancing at the old beekeeper.

 

The handsome old man, with a black beard turning grey in places and thick silvery hair, stood motionless with a bowl of honey in his hand, gazing kindly and calmly down from his height at the gentlefolk, clearly neither understanding them nor wishing to understand.

 

‘That’s just so,’ he said to Koznyshev, and moved his head significantly.

 

‘Yes, you’d better ask him! He neither knows nor thinks about it,’ said Levin. ‘Have you heard about the war, Mikhaylich?’ he asked, addressing the old man. ‘What they read in the church? What do you think? Ought we to fight for the Christians?’

 

‘Why should we think? Alexander Nikolayevich, the Emperor, has thought for us, and will think for us on all matters. He can see better. . . . Shall I bring some more bread and give the laddie a bit?’ he asked Dolly, pointing to Grisha, who was finishing his crust.

 

‘I have no need to ask,’ said Koznyshev. ‘We have seen, and still see, hundreds and hundreds of men who give up everything to serve the righteous cause, and who come from all ends of Russia and openly and clearly express their thoughts and aims. They bring their mites, or go themselves, and say straight out why they do it. What does that mean?’

 

‘It means, it seems to me,’ said Levin, beginning to get excited, that in a nation of eighty millions there can always be found not hundreds, as is now the case, but tens of thousands of men who have lost their social position, happy-go-lucky people who are always ready to go . . . into Pugachev’s robber band [Pugachev was the leader of a very serious rebellion in the reign of Catherine the Great] or to Khiva, or to Serbia . . .’

 

‘I tell you it’s not hundreds, and not the happy-go-lucky people, but the best representatives of the people!’ said Koznyshev, as irritably as if he were defending the last of his possessions. ‘And the donations? There at any rate the whole people directly expresses its will.’

 

‘That word people is so indefinite,’ said Levin. ‘Clerks in district offices, schoolmasters, and one out of a thousand peasants, may know what it is all about. The rest of the eighty millions, like Mikhaylich, not only don’t express their will, but have not the least idea what it is they have to express it about! What right have we then to say it is the will of the people?’