He must escape from this power. And the means of escape every man had
in his own hands. He had but to cut short this dependence on evil. And there
was one means—death.
And Levin, a happy father and husband, in perfect health, was several
times so near suicide that he hid the cord that he might not be tempted to
hang himself, and was afraid to go out with his gun for fear of shooting
himself.
But Levin did not shoot himself, and did not hang himself; he went on
living.
Chapter 10
When Levin thought what he was and what he was living for, he could
find no answer to the questions and was reduced to despair, but he left off
questioning himself about it. It seemed as though he knew both what he was
and for what he was living, for he acted and lived resolutely and without
hesitation. Indeed, in these latter days he was far more decided and
unhesitating in life than he had ever been.
When he went back to the country at the beginning of June, he went back
also to his usual pursuits. The management of the estate, his relations with
the peasants and the neighbors, the care of his household, the management
of his sister’s and brother’s property, of which he had the direction, his
relations with his wife and kindred, the care of his child, and the new bee-
keeping hobby he had taken up that spring, filled all his time.
These things occupied him now, not because he justified them to himself
by any sort of general principles, as he had done in former days; on the
contrary, disappointed by the failure of his former efforts for the general
welfare, and too much occupied with his own thought and the mass of
business with which he was burdened from all sides, he had completely
given up thinking of the general good, and he busied himself with all this
work simply because it seemed to him that he must do what he was doing—
that he could not do otherwise. In former days—almost from childhood, and
increasingly up to full manhood—when he had tried to do anything that
would be good for all, for humanity, for Russia, for the whole village, he
had noticed that the idea of it had been pleasant, but the work itself had
always been incoherent, that then he had never had a full conviction of its
absolute necessity, and that the work that had begun by seeming so great,
had grown less and less, till it vanished into nothing. But now, since his
marriage, when he had begun to confine himself more and more to living
for himself, though he experienced no delight at all at the thought of the
work he was doing, he felt a complete conviction of its necessity, saw that it
succeeded far better than in old days, and that it kept on growing more and
more.
Now, involuntarily it seemed, he cut more and more deeply into the soil
like a plough, so that he could not be drawn out without turning aside the
furrow.
To live the same family life as his father and forefathers—that is, in the
same condition of culture—and to bring up his children in the same, was
incontestably necessary. It was as necessary as dining when one was
hungry. And to do this, just as it was necessary to cook dinner, it was
necessary to keep the mechanism of agriculture at Pokrovskoe going so as
to yield an income. Just as incontestably as it was necessary to repay a debt
was it necessary to keep the property in such a condition that his son, when
he received it as a heritage, would say “thank you” to his father as Levin
had said “thank you” to his grandfather for all he built and planted. And to
do this it was necessary to look after the land himself, not to let it, and to
breed cattle, manure the fields, and plant timber.
It was impossible not to look after the affairs of Sergey Ivanovitch, of his
sister, of the peasants who came to him for advice and were accustomed to
do so—as impossible as to fling down a child one is carrying in one’s arms.
It was necessary to look after the comfort of his sister-in-law and her
children, and of his wife and baby, and it was impossible not to spend with
them at least a short time each day.
And all this, together with shooting and his new bee-keeping, filled up
the whole of Levin’s life, which had no meaning at all for him, when he
began to think.
But besides knowing thoroughly what he had to do, Levin knew in just
the same way how he had to do it all, and what was more important than the
rest.
He knew he must hire laborers as cheaply as possible; but to hire men
under bond, paying them in advance at less than the current rate of wages,
was what he must not do, even though it was very profitable. Selling straw
to the peasants in times of scarcity of provender was what he might do,
even though he felt sorry for them; but the tavern and the pothouse must be
put down, though they were a source of income. Felling timber must be
punished as severely as possible, but he could not exact forfeits for cattle
being driven onto his fields; and though it annoyed the keeper and made the
peasants not afraid to graze their cattle on his land, he could not keep their
cattle as a punishment.
To Pyotr, who was paying a money-lender ten per cent. a month, he must
lend a sum of money to set him free. But he could not let off peasants who
did not pay their rent, nor let them fall into arrears. It was impossible to
overlook the bailiff’s not having mown the meadows and letting the hay
spoil; and it was equally impossible to mow those acres where a young
copse had been planted. It was impossible to excuse a laborer who had gone
home in the busy season because his father was dying, however sorry he
might feel for him, and he must subtract from his pay those costly months
of idleness. But it was impossible not to allow monthly rations to the old
servants who were of no use for anything.
Levin knew that when he got home he must first of all go to his wife,
who was unwell, and that the peasants who had been waiting for three hours
to see him could wait a little longer. He knew too that, regardless of all the
pleasure he felt in taking a swarm, he must forego that pleasure, and leave
the old man to see to the bees alone, while he talked to the peasants who
had come after him to the bee-house.
Whether he were acting rightly or wrongly he did not know, and far from
trying to prove that he was, nowadays he avoided all thought or talk about
it.
Reasoning had brought him to doubt, and prevented him from seeing
what he ought to do and what he ought not. When he did not think, but
simply lived, he was continually aware of the presence of an infallible judge
in his soul, determining which of two possible courses of action was the
better and which was the worse, and as soon as he did not act rightly, he
was at once aware of it.
