.
behind that poetic veil the loftiest feelings and every possible perfection. Why these three young ladies had to speak French and English on alternate days; why at a given time they played, each in her turn, on the piano (the sound of which reached their brother’s room where the students were at work); why those masters of French literature, music, drawing, and dancing came to the house; why at certain hours the three young ladies accompanied by Mademoiselle Linon were driven in a calèche [a light carriage with a folding top] to the Tverskoy Boulevard, wearing satin cloaks (Dolly a long one; Nataly a somewhat shorter one; and Kitty so short a cloak that her shapely little legs in their tight red stockings were quite exposed); why they had to walk up and down the Tverskoy Boulevard accompanied by a footman with a gilt cockade in his hat, — all this and much more that happened in this mystic world he did not understand; but he knew that everything done there was beautiful and he was in love with the very mystery of it all.
In his student days he very nearly fell in love with the eldest daughter, Dolly; but a marriage was soon after arranged between her and Oblonsky. Then he began falling in love with the second daughter. He seemed to feel that he must fall in love with one of the sisters, but he was not sure with which. But Nataly too, as soon as she came out, married the diplomat, Lvov. Kitty was still a child when Levin finished at the University. Young Shcherbatsky who entered the navy was drowned in the Baltic; and after that, in spite of his friendship with Oblonsky, Levin’s intercourse with the Shcherbatskys became less frequent. But when he had come to Moscow early in the winter of this year and met them, he knew at last which of the three sisters he was really fated to love.
It would seem that nothing could be simpler than for him, a man of good family, rich rather than poor, and thirty-two years of age, to propose to the Princess Shcherbatskaya. In all likelihood he would have been considered quite a suitable match. But Levin was in love, and therefore Kitty seemed to him so perfect in every respect, so transcending everything earthly, and he seemed to himself so very earthly and insignificant a creature, that the possibility of his being considered worthy of her by others or by herself was to him unimaginable.
Having spent two months in Moscow, living as in a fog, meeting Kitty almost every day in Society which he began to frequent in order to meet her, he suddenly made up his mind that it was impossible, and returned to the country.
Levin’s conviction that it was impossible rested on the idea that from her relatives’ point of view he was not a good or suitable match for the delightful Kitty, and that Kitty herself could not love him. From her parents’ standpoint (it seemed to him) he had no settled occupation or position in the world. He was thirty-two, and while his former comrades were already colonels, aides-de-camp, Bank and Railway Directors, or Heads of Government Boards like Oblonsky, he (he knew very well what others must think of him) was merely a country squire, spending his time breeding cows, shooting snipe, and erecting buildings — that is to say, a fellow without talent, who had come to no good and was only doing what in the opinion of Society good-for-nothing people always do. Of course the mysterious, enchanting Kitty could not love a plain fellow, such as he considered himself to be, a man so ordinary and undistinguished. Moreover, his former relation to Kitty had been that of a grown-up man toward a child whose brother’s friend he was, and this seemed an additional obstacle in love’s path. He thought a plain kindly fellow like himself might be loved as a friend, but to be loved with the kind of love he felt for Kitty, a man must be handsome, and above all remarkable.
He had heard that women often love plain ordinary men but he did not believe it, because he judged by himself and he could only love beautiful mysterious exceptional women.
But after spending two months alone in the country, he became convinced that this time he was not in love as he had been when quite young — for his present feelings gave him not a moment’s rest — and that he could not live unless the question whether she was to be his wife or not were decided; also that his despair had been the outcome of his own fancy, and that he had no proof that he would be rejected. So he had now come to Moscow determined to propose to her, and to marry her if he was accepted. Or … but he dared not think what would happen if she refused him.
Chapter 7
HAVING reached Moscow by a morning train, Levin went to stay at the house of his half-brother Koznyshev, who was older than he, and after changing his clothes entered his brother’s study, intending to tell him why he had come and to ask his advice. But his brother was not alone. A well-known professor of philosophy was with him, who had come specially from Kharkov to settle a dispute that had arisen between them on an important philosophical question. The professor was engaged in a fierce polemic against the materialists, and Sergius Koznyshev, who followed this polemic with interest, on reading the professor’s last article had written to him reproaching him with having conceded too much to the materialists; and the professor had come at once to talk the matter over. The question was the fashionable one, whether a definite line exists between psychological and physiological phenomena in human activity; and if so, where it lies?
When Levin entered, Sergius Ivanich greeted him with the coldly affable smile he bestowed on everybody and, having introduced him to the professor, went on with the discussion.
The small spectacled man with the narrow forehead interrupted the conversation a moment to say, ‘how do you do’ to Levin and, paying no further attention to him, went on talking. Levin sat down to wait till the professor should go, but soon became interested in the subject of their conversation.
He had seen in the papers the articles they were discussing, and had read them because they interested him as a development of the bases of natural science — familiar to him as he had studied in that faculty at the University; but he had never connected these scientific deductions as to man’s animal origin, reflex actions, biology and sociology, with those questions concerning the meaning to himself of life and death, which had of late more and more frequently occurred to him.
Listening to his brother’s conversation with the professor, he noticed that they connected the scientific question with the spiritual and several times almost reached the latter, but every time they approached this, which seemed to him the most important question, they at once hurriedly retreated and again plunged into the domain of fine subdivisions, reservations, quotations, hints and references to authorities; and he found it difficult to understand what they were talking about.
‘I cannot admit,’ said Koznyshev with his usual clear and precise expression and polished style, ‘I cannot on any account agree with Keiss that my whole conception of the external world is the outcome of impressions. The most fundamental perception — that of existence — is not received through the senses, for there is no special organ to convey that perception.’
‘Yes, but they (Wurst and Knaust and Pripasov) will tell you that your conception of existence results from the collective effect of all your sensations and is therefore a result of sensations. Wurst actually says that without the senses there can be no perception of existence.’
‘I would maintain the opposite …’ began Koznyshev.
But here again it seemed to Levin that having reached the most important matter they avoided it; and he made up his mind to ask the professor a question.
‘Consequently, if my senses are destroyed, if my body dies, no further existence is possible?’ he asked.
The professor, vexed and apparently mentally hurt by the interruption, turned to look at this strange questioner who resembled a barge-hauler rather than a philosopher, and then looked at Koznyshev, as if asking, ‘What can one say to this?’
But Koznyshev, who did not speak with anything like the same effort, or as one-sidedly, as the professor, and had room in his head for an answer to his opponent as well as for comprehension of the simple and natural point of view from which the question arose, smiled and said:
‘That question we have as yet no right to decide …’
‘We have not the data …’ added the professor and went back to his arguments. ‘No,’ said he; ‘I point out that if as Pripasov definitely states, sensation is based on impressions, we must still carefully distinguish