who had not turned out well, and who was doing just what, according to the
ideas of the world, is done by people fit for nothing else.
The mysterious, enchanting Kitty herself could not love such an ugly
person as he conceived himself to be, and, above all, such an ordinary, in no
way striking person. Moreover, his attitude to Kitty in the past—the attitude
of a grown-up person to a child, arising from his friendship with her brother
—seemed to him yet another obstacle to love. An ugly, good-natured man,
as he considered himself, might, he supposed, be liked as a friend; but to be
loved with such a love as that with which he loved Kitty, one would need to
be a handsome and, still more, a distinguished man.
He had heard that women often did care for ugly and ordinary men, but
he did not believe it, for he judged by himself, and he could not himself
have loved any but beautiful, mysterious, and exceptional women.
But after spending two months alone in the country, he was convinced
that this was not one of those passions of which he had had experience in
his early youth; that this feeling gave him not an instant’s rest; that he could
not live without deciding the question, would she or would she not be his
wife, and that his despair had arisen only from his own imaginings, that he
had no sort of proof that he would be rejected. And he had now come to
Moscow with a firm determination to make an offer, and get married if he
were accepted. Or … he could not conceive what would become of him if he
were rejected.
Chapter 7
On arriving in Moscow by a morning train, Levin had put up at the house
of his elder half-brother, Koznishev. After changing his clothes he went
down to his brother’s study, intending to talk to him at once about the object
of his visit, and to ask his advice; but his brother was not alone. With him
there was a well-known professor of philosophy, who had come from
Harkov expressly to clear up a difference that had arisen between them on a
very important philosophical question. The professor was carrying on a hot
crusade against materialists. Sergey Koznishev had been following this
crusade with interest, and after reading the professor’s last article, he had
written him a letter stating his objections. He accused the professor of
making too great concessions to the materialists. And the professor had
promptly appeared to argue the matter out. The point in discussion was the
question then in vogue: Is there a line to be drawn between psychological
and physiological phenomena in man? and if so, where?
Sergey Ivanovitch met his brother with the smile of chilly friendliness he
always had for everyone, and introducing him to the professor, went on
with the conversation.
A little man in spectacles, with a narrow forehead, tore himself from the
discussion for an instant to greet Levin, and then went on talking without
paying any further attention to him. Levin sat down to wait till the professor
should go, but he soon began to get interested in the subject under
discussion.
Levin had come across the magazine articles about which they were
disputing, and had read them, interested in them as a development of the
first principles of science, familiar to him as a natural science student at the
university. But he had never connected these scientific deductions as to the
origin of man as an animal, as to reflex action, biology, and sociology, with
those questions as to the meaning of life and death to himself, which had of
late been more and more often in his mind.
As he listened to his brother’s argument with the professor, he noticed
that they connected these scientific questions with those spiritual problems,
that at times they almost touched on the latter; but every time they were
close upon what seemed to him the chief point, they promptly beat a hasty
retreat, and plunged again into a sea of subtle distinctions, reservations,
quotations, allusions, and appeals to authorities, and it was with difficulty
that he understood what they were talking about.
“I cannot admit it,” said Sergey Ivanovitch, with his habitual clearness,
precision of expression, and elegance of phrase. “I cannot in any case agree
with Keiss that my whole conception of the external world has been derived
from perceptions. The most fundamental idea, the idea of existence, has not
been received by me through sensation; indeed, there is no special sense-
organ for the transmission of such an idea.”
“Yes, but they—Wurt, and Knaust, and Pripasov—would answer that
your consciousness of existence is derived from the conjunction of all your
sensations, that that consciousness of existence is the result of your
