Levin felt, withdrew behind the screen, and put out the candle, but for a
long while he could not sleep. The question how to live had hardly begun to
grow a little clearer to him, when a new, insoluble question presented itself
—death.
“Why, he’s dying—yes, he’ll die in the spring, and how help him? What
can I say to him? What do I know about it? I’d even forgotten that it was at
all.”
Chapter 32
Levin had long before made the observation that when one is
uncomfortable with people from their being excessively amenable and
meek, one is apt very soon after to find things intolerable from their
touchiness and irritability. He felt that this was how it would be with his
brother. And his brother Nikolay’s gentleness did in fact not last out for
long. The very next morning he began to be irritable, and seemed doing his
best to find fault with his brother, attacking him on his tenderest points.
Levin felt himself to blame, and could not set things right. He felt that if
they had both not kept up appearances, but had spoken, as it is called, from
the heart—that is to say, had said only just what they were thinking and
feeling—they would simply have looked into each other’s faces, and
Konstantin could only have said, “You’re dying, you’re dying!” and
Nikolay could only have answered, “I know I’m dying, but I’m afraid, I’m
afraid, I’m afraid!” And they could have said nothing more, if they had said
only what was in their hearts. But life like that was impossible, and so
Konstantin tried to do what he had been trying to do all his life, and never
could learn to do, though, as far as he could observe, many people knew so
well how to do it, and without it there was no living at all. He tried to say
what he was not thinking, but he felt continually that it had a ring of
falsehood, that his brother detected him in it, and was exasperated at it.
The third day Nikolay induced his brother to explain his plan to him
again, and began not merely attacking it, but intentionally confounding it
with communism.
“You’ve simply borrowed an idea that’s not your own, but you’ve
distorted it, and are trying to apply it where it’s not applicable.”
“But I tell you it’s nothing to do with it. They deny the justice of
property, of capital, of inheritance, while I do not deny this chief stimulus.”
(Levin felt disgusted himself at using such expressions, but ever since he
had been engrossed by his work, he had unconsciously come more and
more frequently to use words not Russian.) “All I want is to regulate labor.”
“Which means, you’ve borrowed an idea, stripped it of all that gave it its
force, and want to make believe that it’s something new,” said Nikolay,
angrily tugging at his necktie.
“But my idea has nothing in common….”
“That, anyway,” said Nikolay Levin, with an ironical smile, his eyes
flashing malignantly, “has the charm of—what’s one to call it?—
geometrical symmetry, of clearness, of definiteness. It may be a Utopia. But
if once one allows the possibility of making of all the past a tabula rasa—
no property, no family—then labor would organize itself. But you gain
nothing….”
“Why do you mix things up? I’ve never been a communist.”
“But I have, and I consider it’s premature, but rational, and it has a
future, just like Christianity in its first ages.”
“All that I maintain is that the labor force ought to be investigated from
the point of view of natural science; that is to say, it ought to be studied, its
qualities ascertained….”
“But that’s utter waste of time. That force finds a certain form of activity
of itself, according to the stage of its development. There have been slaves
first everywhere, then metayers; and we have the half-crop system, rent,
and day laborers. What are you trying to find?”
Levin suddenly lost his temper at these words, because at the bottom of
his heart he was afraid that it was true—true that he was trying to hold the
balance even between communism and the familiar forms, and that this was
hardly possible.
“I am trying to find means of working productively for myself and for the
laborers. I want to organize….” he answered hotly.
“You don’t want to organize anything; it’s simply just as you’ve been all
your life, that you want to be original to pose as not exploiting the peasants
simply, but with some idea in view.”
“Oh, all right, that’s what you think—and let me alone!” answered Levin,
feeling the muscles of his left cheek twitching uncontrollably.
“You’ve never had, and never have, convictions; all you want is to please
your vanity.”
“Oh, very well; then let me alone!”
“And I will let you alone! and it’s high time I did, and go to the devil
with you! and I’m very sorry I ever came!”
In spite of all Levin’s efforts to soothe his brother afterwards, Nikolay
would listen to nothing he said, declaring that it was better to part, and
Konstantin saw that it simply was that life was unbearable to him.
Nikolay was just getting ready to go, when Konstantin went in to him
again and begged him, rather unnaturally, to forgive him if he had hurt his
feelings in any way.
“Ah, generosity!” said Nikolay, and he smiled. “If you want to be right, I
can give you that satisfaction. You’re in the right; but I’m going all the
same.”
It was only just at parting that Nikolay kissed him, and said, looking with
sudden strangeness and seriousness at his brother:
“Anyway, don’t remember evil against me, Kostya!” and his voice
quivered. These were the only words that had been spoken sincerely
between them. Levin knew that those words meant, “You see, and you
know, that I’m in a bad way, and maybe we shall not see each other again.”
Levin knew this, and the tears gushed from his eyes. He kissed his brother
once more, but he could not speak, and knew not what to say.
Three days after his brother’s departure, Levin too set off for his foreign
tour. Happening to meet Shtcherbatsky, Kitty’s cousin, in the railway train,
Levin greatly astonished him by his depression.
“What’s the matter with you?” Shtcherbatsky asked him.
“Oh, nothing; there’s not much happiness in life.”
“Not much? You come with me to Paris instead of to Mulhausen. You
shall see how to be happy.”
“No, I’ve done with it all. It’s time I was dead.”
“Well, that’s a good one!” said Shtcherbatsky, laughing; “why, I’m only
just getting ready to begin.”
“Yes, I thought the same not long ago, but now I know I shall soon be
dead.”
Levin said what he had genuinely been thinking of late. He saw nothing
but death or the advance towards death in everything. But his cherished
scheme only engrossed him the more. Life had to be got through somehow
till death did come. Darkness had fallen upon everything for him; but just
because of this darkness he felt that the one guiding clue in the darkness
was his work, and he clutched it and clung to it with all his strength.
