Anna Karenina

lmost two months had passed. The hot summer was half over, but Sergey
Ivanovitch was only just preparing to leave Moscow.

Sergey Ivanovitch’s life had not been uneventful during this time. A
year ago he had finished his book, the fruit of six years’ labor,
“Sketch of a Survey of the Principles and Forms of Government in Europe
and Russia.” Several sections of this book and its introduction had
appeared in periodical publications, and other parts had been read by
Sergey Ivanovitch to persons of his circle, so that the leading ideas
of the work could not be completely novel to the public. But still
Sergey Ivanovitch had expected that on its appearance his book would be
sure to make a serious impression on society, and if it did not cause a
revolution in social science it would, at any rate, make a great stir
in the scientific world.

After the most conscientious revision the book had last year been
published, and had been distributed among the booksellers.

Though he asked no one about it, reluctantly and with feigned
indifference answered his friends’ inquiries as to how the book was
going, and did not even inquire of the booksellers how the book was
selling, Sergey Ivanovitch was all on the alert, with strained
attention, watching for the first impression his book would make in the
world and in literature.

But a week passed, a second, a third, and in society no impression
whatever could be detected. His friends who were specialists and
savants, occasionally—unmistakably from politeness—alluded to it. The
rest of his acquaintances, not interested in a book on a learned
subject, did not talk of it at all. And society generally—just now
especially absorbed in other things—was absolutely indifferent. In the
press, too, for a whole month there was not a word about his book.

Sergey Ivanovitch had calculated to a nicety the time necessary for
writing a review, but a month passed, and a second, and still there was
silence.

Only in the Northern Beetle, in a comic article on the singer
Drabanti, who had lost his voice, there was a contemptuous allusion to
Koznishev’s book, suggesting that the book had been long ago seen
through by everyone, and was a subject of general ridicule.

At last in the third month a critical article appeared in a serious
review. Sergey Ivanovitch knew the author of the article. He had met
him once at Golubtsov’s.

The author of the article was a young man, an invalid, very bold as a
writer, but extremely deficient in breeding and shy in personal
relations.

In spite of his absolute contempt for the author, it was with complete
respect that Sergey Ivanovitch set about reading the article. The
article was awful.

The critic had undoubtedly put an interpretation upon the book which
could not possibly be put on it. But he had selected quotations so
adroitly that for people who had not read the book (and obviously
scarcely anyone had read it) it seemed absolutely clear that the whole
book was nothing but a medley of high-flown phrases, not even—as
suggested by marks of interrogation—used appropriately, and that the
author of the book was a person absolutely without knowledge of the
subject. And all this was so wittily done that Sergey Ivanovitch would
not have disowned such wit himself. But that was just what was so
awful.

In spite of the scrupulous conscientiousness with which Sergey
Ivanovitch verified the correctness of the critic’s arguments, he did
not for a minute stop to ponder over the faults and mistakes which were
ridiculed; but unconsciously he began immediately trying to recall
every detail of his meeting and conversation with the author of the
article.

“Didn’t I offend him in some way?” Sergey Ivanovitch wondered.

And remembering that when they met he had corrected the young man about
something he had said that betrayed ignorance, Sergey Ivanovitch found
the clue to explain the article.

This article was followed by a deadly silence about the book both in
the press and in conversation, and Sergey Ivanovitch saw that his six
years’ task, toiled at with such love and labor, had gone, leaving no
trace.

Sergey Ivanovitch’s position was still more difficult from the fact
that, since he had finished his book, he had had no more literary work
to do, such as had hitherto occupied the greater part of his time.

Sergey Ivanovitch was clever, cultivated, healthy, and energetic, and
he did not know what use to make of his energy. Conversations in
drawing-rooms, in meetings, assemblies, and committees—everywhere where
talk was possible—took up part of his time. But being used for years to
town life, he did not waste all his energies in talk, as his less
experienced younger brother did, when he was in Moscow. He had a great
deal of leisure and intellectual energy still to dispose of.

Fortunately for him, at this period so difficult for him from the
failure of his book, the various public questions of the dissenting
sects, of the American alliance, of the Samara famine, of exhibitions,
and of spiritualism, were definitely replaced in public interest by the
Slavonic question, which had hitherto rather languidly interested
society, and Sergey Ivanovitch, who had been one of the first to raise
this subject, threw himself into it heart and soul.

In the circle to which Sergey Ivanovitch belonged, nothing was talked
of or written about just now but the Servian War. Everything that the
idle crowd usually does to kill time was done now for the benefit of
the Slavonic States. Balls, concerts, dinners, matchboxes, ladies’
dresses, beer, restaurants—everything testified to sympathy with the
Slavonic peoples.

From much of what was spoken and written on the subject, Sergey
Ivanovitch differed on various points. He saw that the Slavonic
question had become one of those fashionable distractions which succeed
one another in providing society with an object and an occupation. He
saw, too, that a great many people were taking up the subject from
motives of self-interest and self-advertisement. He recognized that the
newspapers published a great deal that was superfluous and exaggerated,
with the sole aim of attracting attention and outbidding one another.
He saw that in this general movement those who thrust themselves most
forward and shouted the loudest were men who had failed and were
smarting under a sense of injury—generals without armies, ministers not
in the ministry, journalists not on any paper, party leaders without
followers. He saw that there was a great deal in it that was frivolous
and absurd. But he saw and recognized an unmistakable growing
enthusiasm, uniting all classes, with which it was impossible not to
sympathize. The massacre of men who were fellow Christians, and of the
same Slavonic race, excited sympathy for the sufferers and indignation
against the oppressors. And the heroism of the Servians and
Montenegrins struggling for a great cause begot in the whole people a
longing to help their brothers not in word but in deed.

But in this there was another aspect that rejoiced Sergey Ivanovitch.
That was the manifestation of public opinion. The public had definitely
expressed its desire. The soul of the people had, as Sergey Ivanovitch
said, found expression. And the more he worked in this cause, the more
incontestable it seemed to him that it was a cause destined to assume
vast dimensions, to create an epoch.

He threw himself heart and soul into the service of this great cause,
and forgot to think about his book. His whole time now was engrossed by
it, so that he could scarcely manage to answer all the letters and
appeals addressed to him. He worked the whole spring and part of the
summer, and it was only in July that he prepared to go away to his
brother’s in the country.

He was going both to rest for a fortnight, and in the very heart of the
people, in the farthest wilds of the country, to enjoy the sight of
that uplifting of the spirit of the people, of which, like all
residents in the capital and big towns, he was fully persuaded.
Katavasov had long been meaning to carry out his promise to stay with
Levin, and so he was going with him.