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 between these two perceptions.’
Levin listened no longer but sat waiting for the professor to go.
Chapter 8
WHEN the professor had gone, Koznyshev turned to his stepbrother.
‘I am very glad you have come. Are you here for long? How do you get on with your farming?’
Levin knew that farming did not interest his elder brother and that the question was merely a concession; therefore he replied generally as to the sale of wheat and money matters. He wanted to tell his brother of his intended marriage and to ask his advice. He had even firmly made up his mind to do so, but when he saw his brother and heard his conversation with the professor, and afterward noticed the involuntarily patronizing tone in which he asked him about the business of their estate (this estate which they had jointly inherited from their mother had not been divided, and Levin was managing the whole of it), he felt that something prevented him from beginning to speak to his brother about his intention to marry. He felt that his brother would not look at the matter as he wished him to.
‘Well, and how is your Zemstvo getting on?’ asked Koznyshev, who took a keen interest in the rural administration and attached great importance to it.
‘I really don’t know.’
‘What? But you are a Member?’
‘No, I am no longer on it. I resigned,’ answered Levin, ‘and don’t attend the Meetings any more.’
‘That’s a pity!’ said Koznyshev, and frowned. To justify himself Levin began to relate what used to happen at the Meetings in his district.
‘There now! It’s always the same,’ interrupted Koznyshev. ‘We Russians are always like that. It may be a good trait in us — this capacity