“Oh, pretty fair.”
He had fourteen birds.
“A splendid marsh! I’ve no doubt Veslovsky got in your way. It’s
awkward too, shooting with one dog,” said Stepan Arkadyevitch, to soften
his triumph.
Chapter 11
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 été charmants. Just fancy, they gave me
drink, fed me! Such bread, it was exquisite! Délicieux! 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 everyone. 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 roi est mort, vive le roi.
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 lying 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? Ça ne tire pas à conséquence. 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 anyone, and shall set off at
daybreak.”
“Messieurs, venez 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.
