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_ When Levin and Stepan Arkadyevitch reached the peasant's hut
where Levin always used to stay, Veslovsky was already there. He
was sitting in the middle of the hut, clinging with both hands to
the bench from which he was being pulled by a soldier, the
brother of the peasant's wife, who was helping him off with his
miry boots. Veslovsky was laughing his infectious, good-humored
laugh.
"I've only just come. Ils ont ete charmants. Just fancy, they
gave me drink, fed me! Such bread, it was exquisite! Delicieux!
And the vodka, I never tasted any better. And they would not take
a penny for anything. And they kept saying: 'Excuse our homely
ways.'"
"What should they take anything for? They were entertaining you,
to be sure. Do you suppose they keep vodka for sale?" said the
soldier, succeeding at last in pulling the soaked boot off the
blackened stocking.
In spite of the dirtiness of the hut, which was all muddied by
their boots and the filthy dogs licking themselves clean, and the
smell of marsh mud and powder that filled the room, and the
absence of knives and forks, the party drank their tea and ate
their supper with a relish only known to sportsmen. Washed and
clean, they went into a hay-barn swept ready for them, where the
coachman had been making up beds for the gentlemen.
Though it was dusk, not one of them wanted to go to sleep.
After wavering among reminiscences and anecdotes of guns, of
dogs, and of former shooting-parties, the conversation rested on
a topic that interested all of them. After Vassenka had several
times over expressed his appreciation of this delightful
sleeping-place among the fragrant hay, this delightful broken
cart (he supposed it to be broken because the shafts had been
taken out), of the good-nature of the peasants that had treated
him to vodka, of the dogs who lay at the feet of their respective
masters, Oblonsky began telling them of a delightful
shooting-party at Malthus's, where he had stayed the previous
summer.
Malthus was a well-known capitalist, who had made his money by
speculation in railway shares. Stepan Arkadyevitch described what
grouse moors this Malthus had bought in the Tver province, and
how they were preserved, and of the carriages and dogcarts in
which the shooting-party had been driven, and the luncheon
pavilion that had been rigged up at the marsh.
"I don't understand you," said Levin, sitting up in the hay; "how
is it such people don't disgust you? I can understand a lunch
with Lafitte is all very pleasant, but don't you dislike just
that very sumptuousness? All these people, just like our spirit
monopolists in old days, get their money in a way that gains them
the contempt of every one. They don't care for their contempt,
and then they use their dishonest gains to buy off the contempt
they have deserved."
"Perfectly true!" chimed in Vassenka Veslovsky. "Perfectly!
Oblonsky, of course, goes out of bonhomie, but other people say:
'Well, Oblonsky stays with them.' . . ."
"Not a bit of it." Levin could hear that Oblonsky was smiling as
he spoke. "I simply don't consider him more dishonest than any
other wealthy merchant or nobleman. They've all made their money
alike--by their work and their intelligence."
"Oh, by what work? Do you call it work to get hold of concessions
and speculate with them?"
"Of course it's work. Work in this sense, that if it were not for
him and others like him, there would have been no railways."
"But that's not work, like the work of a peasant or a learned
profession."
"Granted, but it's work in the sense that his activity produces a
result--the railways. But of course you think the railways
useless."
"No, that's another question; I am prepared to admit that they're
useful. But all profit that is out of proportion to the labor
expended is dishonest."
"But who is to define what is proportionate?"
"Making profit by dishonest means, by trickery," said Levin,
conscious that he could not draw a distinct line between honesty
and dishonesty. "Such as banking, for instance," he went on.
"It's an evil--the amassing of huge fortunes without labor, just
the same thing as with the spirit monopolies, it's only the form
that's changed. Le rot est mart, rive le rod. No sooner were the
spirit monopolies abolished than the railways came up, and
banking companies; that, too, is profit without work."
"Yes, that may all be very true and clever.... Lie down, Krak!"
Stepan Arkadyevitch called to his dog, who was scratching and
turning over all the hay. He was obviously convinced of the
correctness of his position, and so talked serenely and without
haste. "But you have not drawn the line between honest and
dishonest work. That I receive a bigger salary than my chief
clerk, though he knows more about the work than I do--that's
dishonest, I suppose?"
"I can't say."
"Well, but I can tell you: your receiving some five thousand,
let's say, for your work on the land, while our host, the peasant
here, however hard he works, can never get more than fifty
roubles, is just as dishonest as my earning more than my chief
clerk, and Malthus getting more than a station-master. No, quite
the contrary; I see that society takes up a sort of antagonistic
attitude to these people,which is utterly baseless, and I fancy
there's envy at the bottom of it...."
"No, that's unfair," said Veslovsky; "how could envy come in?
There is something not nice about that sort of business."
"You say," Levin went on, "that it's unjust for me to receive
five thousand, while the peasant has fifty; that's true. It is
unfair, and I feel it, but . . ."
"It really is. Why is it we spend our time riding, drinking,
shooting, doing nothing, while they are forever at work?" said
Vassenka Veslovsky, obviously for the first time in his life
reflecting on the question, and consequently considering it with
perfect sincerity.
"Yes, you feel it, but you don't give him your property," said
Stepan Arkadyevitch, intentionally, as it seemed, provoking
Levin.
There had arisen of late something like a secret antagonism
between the two brothers-in-law; as though, since they had
married sisters, a kind of rivalry had sprung up between them as
to which was ordering his life best, and now this hostility
showed itself in the conversation, as it began to take a personal
note.
"I don't give it away, because no one demands that from me, and
if I wanted to, I could not give it away," answered Levin, "and
have no one to give it to."
"Give it to this peasant, he would not refuse it."
"Yes, but how am I to give it up? Am I to go to him and make a
deed of conveyance?"
"I don't know; but if you are convinced that you have no right .
. ."
"I'm not at all convinced. On the contrary, I feel I have no
right to give it up, that I have duties both to the land and to
my family."
"No, excuse me, but if you consider this inequality is unjust,
why is it you don't act accordingly? . . ."
"Well, I do act negatively on that idea, so far as not trying to
increase the difference of position existing between him and me."
"No, excuse me, that's a paradox."
"Yes, there's something of a sophistry about that," Veslovsky
agreed. "Ah! our host; so you're not asleep yet?" he said to the
peasant who came into the barn, opening the creaking door. "How
is it you're not asleep?"
"No, how's one to sleep! I thought our gentlemen would be asleep,
but I heard them chattering. I want to get a hook from here. She
won't bite?" he added, stepping cautiously with his bare feet.
"And where are you going to sleep?"
"We are going out for the night with the beasts."
"Ah, what a night!" said Veslovsky, looking out at the edge of
the hut and the unharnessed wagonette that could be seen in the
faint light of the evening glow in the great frame of the open
doors. "But listen, there are women's voices singing, and, on my
word, not badly too. Who's that singing, my friend?"
"That's the maids from hard by here."
"Let's go, let's have a walk! We shan't go to sleep, you know.
Oblonsky, come along!"
"If one could only do both, lie here and go," answered Oblonsky,
stretching. "It's capital Iying here."
"Well, I shall go by myself," said Veslovsky, getting up eagerly,
and putting on his shoes and stockings. "Good-bye, gentlemen. If
it's fun, I'll fetch you. You've treated me to some good sport,
and I won't forget you."
"He really is a capital fellow, isn't he?" said Stepan
Arkadyevitch, when Veslovsky had gone out and the peasant had
closed the door after him.
"Yes, capital," answered Levin, still thinking of the subject of
their conversation just before. It seemed to him that he had
clearly expressed his thoughts and feelings to the best of his
capacity, and yet both of them, straightforward men and not
fools, had said with one voice that he was comforting himself
with sophistries. This disconcerted him.
"It's just this, my dear boy. One must do one of two things:
either admit that the existing order of society is just, and then
stick up for one's rights in it; or acknowledge that you are
enjoying unjust privileges, as I do, and then enjoy them and be
satisfied."
"No, if it were unjust, you could not enjoy these advantages and
be satisfied--at least I could not. The great thing for me is to
feel that I'm not to blame."
"What do you say, why not go after all?" said Stepan
Arkadyevitch, evidently weary of the strain of thought. "We
shan't go to sleep, you know. Come, let's go!"
Levin did not answer. What they had said in the conversation,
that he acted justly only in a negative sense, absorbed his
thoughts. "Can it be that it's only possible to be just
negatively?" he was asking himself.
"How strong the smell of the fresh hay is, though," said Stepan
Arkadyevitch, getting up. "There's not a chance of sleeping.
Vassenka has been getting up some fun there. Do you hear the
laughing and his voice? Hadn't we better go? Come along!"
"No, I'm not coming," answered Levin.
"Surely that's not a matter of principle too," said Stepan
Arkadyevitch, smiling, as he felt about in the dark for his cap.
"It's not a matter of principle, but why should I go?"
"But do you know you are preparing trouble for yourself," said
Stepan Arkadyevitch, finding his cap and getting up.
"How so?"
"Do you suppose I don't see the line you've taken up with your
wife? I heard how it's a question of the greatest consequence,
whether or not you're to be away for a couple of days' shooting.
That's all very well as an idyllic episode, but for your whole
life that won't answer. A man must be independent; he has his
masculine interests. A man has to be manly," said Oblonsky,
opening the door.
"In what way? To go running after servant-girls?" said Levin.
"Why not, if it amuses him? Ca ne tire pas a consequence. It
won't do my wife any harm, and it'll amuse me. The great thing is
to respect the sanctity of the home. There should be nothing in
the home. But don't tie your own hands."
"Perhaps so," said Levin dryly, and he turned on his side.
"Tomorrow, early, I want to go shooting, and I won't wake any
one, and shall set off at daybreak."
"Messieurs, venes vite!" they heard the voice of Veslovsky coming
back. "Charmante! I've made such a discovery. Charmante! a
perfect Gretchen, and I've already made friends with her. Really,
exceedingly pretty," he declared in a tone of approval, as though
she had been made pretty entirely on his account, and he was
expressing his satisfaction with the entertainment that had been
provided for him.
Levin pretended to be asleep, while Oblonsky, putting on his
slippers, and lighting a cigar, walked out of the barn, and soon
their voices were lost.
For a long while Levin could not get to sleep. He heard the
horses munching hay, then he heard the peasant and his elder boy
getting ready for the night, and going off for the night-watch
with the beasts, then he heard the soldier arranging his bed on
the other side of the barn, with his nephew, the younger son of
their peasant host. He heard the boy in his shrill little voice
telling his uncle what he thought about the dogs, who seemed to
him huge and terrible creatures, and asking what the dogs were
going to hunt next day, and the soldier in a husky, sleepy voice,
telling him the sportsmen were going in the morning to the marsh,
and would shoot with their guns; and then, to check the boy's
questions, he said, "Go to sleep, Vaska; go to sleep, or you'll
catch it," and soon after he began snoring himself, and
everything was still. He could only hear the snort of the horses,
and the guttural cry of a snipe.
"Is it really only negative?" he repeated to himself. "Well, what
of it? It's not my fault." And he began thinking about the next
day.
"To-morrow I'll go out early, and I'll make a point of keeping
cool. There are lots of snipe; and there are grouse too. When I
come back there'll be the note from Kitty. Yes, Stiva may be
right, I'm not manly with her, I'm tied to her apron-strings. ..
. . Well, it can't be helped! Negative again...."
Half asleep, he heard the laughter and mirthful talk of Veslovsky
and Stepan Arkadyevitch. For an instant he opened his eyes: the
moon was up, and in the open doorway, brightly lighted up by the
moonlight, they were standing talking. Stepan Ardadyevitch was
saying something of the freshness of one girl, comparing her to a
freshly peeled nut, and Veslovsky with his infectious laugh was
repeating some words, probably said to him by a peasant: "Ah, you
do your best to get round her!" Levin, half asleep, said:
"Gentlemen, to-morrow before daylight!" and fell asleep. _
Read next: Part six: Chapter 12
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