Listening to his brother's conversation with the professor, he noticed that they connected the scientific questions with the inner, spiritual ones, several times almost touched upon them, but that each time they came close to what seemed to him the most important thing, they hastily retreated and again dug deeper into the realm of fine distinctions, reservations, quotations, allusions, references to authorities, and he had difficulty understanding what they were talking about.
'I cannot allow,' Sergei Ivanovich said with his usual clarity and precision of expression and elegance of diction, 'I can by no means agree with Keiss that my whole notion of the external world stems from sense impressions. The fundamental concept of being itself is not received through the senses, for there exists no special organ for conveying that concept.'
'Yes, but they - Wurst and Knaust and Pripasov [14] will reply to you that your consciousness of being comes from the totality of your sense impressions, that this consciousness of being is the result of sensations. Wurst even says directly that where there are no sensations, there is n concept of being.'
'I would say the reverse,' Sergei Ivanovich began ...
But here again it seemed to Levin that, having approached the most important thing, they were once more moving away, and he decided to put a question to the professor.
'Therefore, if my senses are destroyed, if my body dies, there can be no further existence?' he asked.
The professor, vexed and as if mentally pained by the interruption, turned to the strange questioner, who looked more like a barge-hauler than a philosopher, then shifted his gaze to Sergei Ivanovich as if to ask: what can one say to that? But Sergei Ivanovich, who spoke with far less strain and one-sidedness than the professor, and in whose head there still remained room enough both for responding to the professor and for understanding the simple and natural point of view from which the question had been put, smiled and said:
'That question we still have no right to answer ...'
'We have no data,' the professor confirmed and went on with his arguments. 'No,' he said, 'I will point out that if, as Pripasov states directly, sensation does have its basis in impression, we must distinguish strictly between these two concepts.'
Levin listened no more and waited until the professor left.
VIII
When the professor had gone, Sergei Ivanovich turned to his brother.
'Very glad you've come. Staying long? How's the farming?'
Levin knew that his older brother had little interest in farming and that he asked about it only as a concession to him, and therefore he answered only about the sales of wheat and about money.
Levin wanted to tell his brother of his intention to marry and to ask his advice; he was even firmly resolved on it. But when he saw his brother, listened to his conversation with the professor, and then heard the inadvertently patronizing tone with which his brother asked him about farm matters (their mother's estate had not been divided, and Levin was in charge of both parts), for some reason he felt unable to begin talking with his brother about his decision to marry. He felt that his brother would not look upon it as he would have wished.
'Well, how are things with your zemstvo?' asked Sergei Ivanovich, who was very interested in the zemstvo and ascribed great significance to it.
'I don't really know ...'
'How's that? Aren't you a member of the board?' 'No, I'm no longer a member. I resigned,' replied Konstantin Levin, 'and I don't go to the meetings any more.'
'Too bad!' said Sergei Ivanovich, frowning.
Levin, to vindicate himself, began to describe what went on at the meetings in his district.
'But it's always like that!' Sergei Ivanovich interrupted. 'We Russians are always like that. Maybe it's a good feature of ours - the ability to see our own failings - but we overdo it, we take comfort in irony, which always comes readily to our tongues. I'll tell you only that if they gave some other European nation the same rights as in our zemstvo institutions - the Germans or the English would have worked their way to freedom with them, while we just laugh.'
'But what to do?' Levin said guiltily. 'This was my last attempt. And I put my whole soul into it. I can't. I'm incapable.'
'Not incapable,' said Sergei Ivanovich, 'but you don't have the right view of the matter.'
'Maybe,' Levin replied glumly.
'You know, brother Nikolai is here again.'
Brother Nikolai was Konstantin Levin's older brother and Sergei Ivanovich's half-brother, a ruined man, who had squandered the greater part of his fortune, moved in very strange and bad society, and had quarrelled with his brothers.
'What did you say?' Levin cried out with horror. 'How do you know?'
'Prokofy saw him in the street.'
'Here in Moscow? Where is he? Do you know?' Levin got up from his chair, as though he were about to leave at once.
'I'm sorry I told you,' said Sergei Ivanovich, shaking his head at his brother's agitation. 'I sent to find out where he's living, and returned him his promissory note to Trubin, which I paid. Here's how he answered me.'
And Sergei Ivanovich handed his brother a note from under a paperweight.
Levin read what was written in that strange, so familiar handwriting: 'I humbly beg you to leave me alone. That is the one thing I ask of my gentle little brothers. Nikolai Levin.'
Levin read it and, not raising his head, stood before Sergei Ivanovich with the note in his hand.
His soul was struggling between the desire to forget just then about his unfortunate brother, and the consciousness that to do so would be wrong.
'He obviously wants to insult me,' Sergei Ivanovich went on, 'but insult me he cannot, and I wish with all my heart that I could help him, yet I know it's impossible.'
'Yes, yes,' Levin repeated. 'I understand and appreciate your attitude towards him; but I will go and see him.'
'Go if you like, but I don't advise it,' said Sergei Ivanovich. 'That is, as far as I'm concerned, I'm not afraid of it, he won't make us quarrel with each other; but for your own sake, I advise you not to go. You can't help. However, do as you please.'
'Maybe I can't help, but I feel, especially at this moment - though that's another matter - I feel I can't be at peace.'
'Well, that I don't understand,' said Sergei Ivanovich. 'I understand only one thing,' he added, 'that it's a lesson in humility. I've begun to take a different and more lenient view of what's known as baseness since brother Nikolai became what he is ... You know what he's done ...'
'Ah, it's terrible, terrible!' Levin repeated.
Having obtained his brother's address from Sergei Ivanovich's footman, Levin wanted to go to him at once, but, on reflection, decided to postpone his visit till evening. First of all, to be at peace with himself, he had to resolve the matter that had brought him to Moscow. From his brother's Levin went to Oblonsky's office and, learning about the Shcherbatskys, went where he was told he could find Kitty.
IX
At four o'clock, feeling his heart pounding, Levin got out of a cab at the Zoological Garden and walked down the path towards the sledging hills and the skating rink, knowing for certain that he would find her there, because he had seen the Shcherbatskys' carriage at the entrance.
It was a clear frosty day. At the entrance stood rows of carriages, sleighs, cabbies, mounted police. Proper folk, their hats gleaming in the sun, swarmed by the gate and along the cleared paths, among little Russian cottages with fretwork eaves and ridges; the old curly-headed birches in the garden, all their branches hung with snow, seemed to be decked out in new festive garments.
He walked down the path towards the skating rink and said to himself: 'Mustn't be excited, must keep calm. What are you doing? What's the matter with you? Quiet, stupid!' He spoke to his heart. And the more he tried to calm himself, the more breathless he became. An acquaintance went by and called out to him, but Levin did not even recognize who it was. He came to the hills, where there was a clanking of chains towing sledges up and down
, the clatter of descending sledges and the sound of merry voices. He walked on a few more steps, and before him opened the skating rink, and at once, among all the skaters, he recognized her.
He knew she was there by the joy and fear that overwhelmed his heart. She stood at the other end of the rink, talking to a lady. There seemed to be nothing very special in her dress, nor in her pose; but for Levin she was as easy to recognize in that crowd as a rose among nettles. Everything was lit up by her. She was the smile that brightened everything around. 'Can I really step down there on the ice and go over to her?' he thought. The place where she stood seemed to him unapproachably holy, and there was a moment when he almost went away - he was so filled with awe. Making an effort, he reasoned that all sorts of people were walking near her and that he might have come to skate there himself. He stepped down, trying not to look long at her, as if she were the sun, yet he saw her, like the sun, even without looking.
On that day of the week and at that hour of the day, people of the same circle, all acquaintances, gathered on the ice. Here there were expert skaters who showed off their art, and learners leaning on chairs[15] moving timidly and clumsily, and young boys, and old people who skated for hygienic purposes. To Levin they all seemed chosen and lucky because they were there, close to her. It seemed that with perfect equanimity the skaters went ahead, came abreast of her, even talked to her, and enjoyed themselves quite independently of her, taking advantage of the excellent ice and good weather.
Nikolai Shcherbatsky, Kitty's cousin, in a short jacket and narrow trousers, was sitting on a bench with his skates on. Seeing Levin, he called out to him:
'Ah, the foremost Russian skater! Been here long? The ice is excellent, put your skates on!'
'I don't have any skates,' Levin replied, surprised at this boldness and casualness in her presence and not losing sight of her for a moment, though he was not looking at her. He felt the sun approach him. She was turning a corner, her slender feet at a blunt angle in their high boots, and with evident timidity was skating towards him. Desperately swinging his arms and crouching low, a boy in Russian dress was overtaking her. She skated not quite steadily; taking her hands out of a small muff hanging from a cord, she held them ready and, looking at Levin, whom she had recognized, smiled at him and at her own fear. When she finished the turn, she pushed herself off with a springy little foot and glided right up to Shcherbatsky. Holding on to him and smiling, she nodded to Levin. She was more beautiful than he had imagined her.
When he thought of her, he could vividly picture all of her to himself, especially the loveliness of that small fair head, with its expression of a child's brightness and kindness, set so easily on her shapely girlish shoulders. In this childlike expression of her face combined with the slender beauty of her figure lay her special loveliness, which he remembered well; but what was always striking in her, like something unexpected, was the look in her eyes - meek, calm and truthful - and especially her smile, which always transported Levin into a magic world where he felt softened and moved to tenderness, as he could remember himself being on rare days in his early childhood.
'Have you been here long?' she said, giving him her hand. 'Thank you,' she added, as he picked up the handkerchief that had fallen out of her muff.
'I? Not long, I came yesterday ... today, I mean,' replied Levin, not quite understanding her question in his excitement. 'I was going to call on you,' he said and, remembering at once with what intention he was looking for her, he became embarrassed and blushed. 'I didn't know you skated, and skated so well.'
She looked at him attentively, as if wishing to understand the reason for his embarrassment.
'Your praise is to be valued. There's a tradition here of you being an excellent skater,' she said, flicking off with her small, black-gloved hand the needles of hoar-frost that had fallen on her muff.
Yes, I used to be a passionate skater; I wanted to achieve perfection.'
'It seems you do everything passionately,' she said, smiling. 'I do so want to see you skate. Put on some skates and let's skate together.'
'Skate together! Can it be possible?' thought Levin, looking at her.
'I'll put them on at once,' he said.
And he went to put on some skates.
'You haven't been here for a long time, sir,' said the skating attendant as he supported his foot, tightening the screw on the heel. 'There have been no experts among the gentlemen since you left. Will that be all right?' he asked, tightening the strap.
'All right, all right, hurry up, please,' Levin replied, barely repressing the smile of happiness that involuntarily appeared on his face. 'Yes,' he thought, 'this is life, this is happiness! "Together", she said, "let's skate together". Shall I tell her now? But that's why I'm afraid to tell her, because I'm happy now, happy at least in hopes ... And then?... But I must! I must! Away, weakness!'
Levin stood up, took his coat off and, taking a run on the rough ice near the shed, raced out on to the smooth ice and glided effortlessly, speeding up, slowing down, and directing his course as if by will alone. He approached her timidly, but again her smile set him at ease.
She gave him her hand, and they set off together, increasing their speed, and the faster they went, the tighter she held on to his arm.
'With you I'd learn quicker; for some reason I have confidence in you,' she said to him.
'And I have confidence in myself when you lean on my arm,' he said, but at once felt afraid of what he had said and blushed. Indeed, as soon as he uttered those words, her face lost all its gentleness, as if the sun had suddenly gone behind a cloud, and Levin recognized the familiar play of her face that indicated the effort of thought: a little wrinkle swelled on her smooth forehead.
'Has anything unpleasant happened to you? Though I have no right to ask,' he said quickly.
'Why?... No, nothing unpleasant has happened,' she answered coldly and added at once: 'Have you seen Mlle Linon?'
'Not yet.'
'Go over to her, she likes you so much.'
'What's this? I've upset her. Lord help me!' thought Levin, and he raced over to the old Frenchwoman with grey curls, who was sitting on a bench. Smiling and showing her false teeth, she greeted him like an old friend.
'So, we're getting bigger,' she said to him, glancing in Kitty's direction, 'and older. Tiny bear has grown up!' the Frenchwoman went on, laughing, and she reminded him of his joke about the three girls, whom he used to call the three bears from the English tale. 'Remember how you used to say it?' He decidedly did not remember, but for ten years she had been laughing over this joke and enjoying it. 'Well, go, go and skate. Our Kitty's become a good skater, hasn't
she?' When Levin again raced up to Kitty, her face was no longer stern, the
look in her eyes was as truthful and gentle as ever, but it seemed to Levin
that her gentleness had a special, deliberately calm tone. And he felt sad.
After talking about her old governess and her quirks, she asked him
about his life.
'Is it really not boring for you in the country during the winter?' she
said.
'No, it's not boring, I'm very busy,' he said, sensing that she was subjecting him to her calm tone, which he would be unable to get out of, just as had happened at the beginning of winter.
'Have you come for long?' Kitty asked him.
'I don't know,' he replied, not thinking of what he was saying. It occurred to him that if he yielded again to this tone of calm friendship, he would again leave without having decided anything, and he decided to rebel.
'Why don't you know?'
'I don't know. That depends on you,' he said and at once was horrified at his words.
She did not hear his words, or did not wish to hear, but seemed to stumble, tapped her foot twice, and hurriedly skated away from him. She skated over to Mlle Linon, said something to her, and went to the shed where the ladies took off their skates.
'My God, what have I done! Lord
God! Help me, teach me,' Levin said, praying, and at the same time, feeling a need for strong movement, he speeded up, cutting outer and inner circles.
Just then one of the young men, the best of the new skaters, with
skates on and a cigarette in his mouth, came out of the coffee room and,
taking a short run, went down the steps on his skates, clattering and
jumping. He flew down and, not even changing the free position of his
arms, glided away over the ice.
Ah, that's a new stunt!' said Levin, and immediately ran up to try it.
Don't hurt yourself, it takes practice!' Nikolai Shcherbatsky called out to him. Levin got up on the landing, took as much of a run as he could, and raced down, balancing himself with his arms in this unpractised movement. On the last step he caught on something, but, barely touching the ice with his hand, he made a strong movement, righted himself, and, laughing, skated on.
'A nice man, a dear man,' Kitty thought just then, coming out of the shed with Mlle Linon and looking at him with a smile of gentle tenderness, as at a beloved brother. 'And can it be I'm to blame, can it be I did something bad? Coquettishness, they say. I know it's not him I love; but even so, it's fun to be with him, and he's so nice. Only why did he say that? ...' she thought.