Anna Karenina

t the end of September the timber had been carted for building the
cattleyard on the land that had been allotted to the association of
peasants, and the butter from the cows was sold and the profits
divided. In practice the system worked capitally, or, at least, so it
seemed to Levin. In order to work out the whole subject theoretically
and to complete his book, which, in Levin’s daydreams, was not merely
to effect a revolution in political economy, but to annihilate that
science entirely and to lay the foundation of a new science of the
relation of the people to the soil, all that was left to do was to make
a tour abroad, and to study on the spot all that had been done in the
same direction, and to collect conclusive evidence that all that had
been done there was not what was wanted. Levin was only waiting for the
delivery of his wheat to receive the money for it and go abroad. But
the rains began, preventing the harvesting of the corn and potatoes
left in the fields, and putting a stop to all work, even to the
delivery of the wheat.

The mud was impassable along the roads; two mills were carried away,
and the weather got worse and worse.

On the 30th of September the sun came out in the morning, and hoping
for fine weather, Levin began making final preparations for his
journey. He gave orders for the wheat to be delivered, sent the bailiff
to the merchant to get the money owing him, and went out himself to
give some final directions on the estate before setting off.

Having finished all his business, soaked through with the streams of
water which kept running down the leather behind his neck and his
gaiters, but in the keenest and most confident temper, Levin returned
homewards in the evening. The weather had become worse than ever
towards evening; the hail lashed the drenched mare so cruelly that she
went along sideways, shaking her head and ears; but Levin was all right
under his hood, and he looked cheerfully about him at the muddy streams
running under the wheels, at the drops hanging on every bare twig, at
the whiteness of the patch of unmelted hailstones on the planks of the
bridge, at the thick layer of still juicy, fleshy leaves that lay
heaped up about the stripped elm-tree. In spite of the gloominess of
nature around him, he felt peculiarly eager. The talks he had been
having with the peasants in the further village had shown that they
were beginning to get used to their new position. The old servant to
whose hut he had gone to get dry evidently approved of Levin’s plan,
and of his own accord proposed to enter the partnership by the purchase
of cattle.

“I have only to go stubbornly on towards my aim, and I shall attain my
end,” thought Levin; “and it’s something to work and take trouble for.
This is not a matter of myself individually; the question of the public
welfare comes into it. The whole system of culture, the chief element
in the condition of the people, must be completely transformed. Instead
of poverty, general prosperity and content; instead of hostility,
harmony and unity of interests. In short, a bloodless revolution, but a
revolution of the greatest magnitude, beginning in the little circle of
our district, then the province, then Russia, the whole world. Because
a just idea cannot but be fruitful. Yes, it’s an aim worth working for.
And its being me, Kostya Levin, who went to a ball in a black tie, and
was refused by the Shtcherbatskaya girl, and who was intrinsically such
a pitiful, worthless creature—that proves nothing; I feel sure Franklin
felt just as worthless, and he too had no faith in himself, thinking of
himself as a whole. That means nothing. And he too, most likely, had an
Agafea Mihalovna to whom he confided his secrets.”

Musing on such thoughts Levin reached home in the darkness.

The bailiff, who had been to the merchant, had come back and brought
part of the money for the wheat. An agreement had been made with the
old servant, and on the road the bailiff had learned that everywhere
the corn was still standing in the fields, so that his one hundred and
sixty shocks that had not been carried were nothing in comparison with
the losses of others.

After dinner Levin was sitting, as he usually did, in an easy chair
with a book, and as he read he went on thinking of the journey before
him in connection with his book. Today all the significance of his book
rose before him with special distinctness, and whole periods ranged
themselves in his mind in illustration of his theories. “I must write
that down,” he thought. “That ought to form a brief introduction, which
I thought unnecessary before.” He got up to go to his writing-table,
and Laska, lying at his feet, got up too, stretching and looking at him
as though to inquire where to go. But he had not time to write it down,
for the head peasants had come round, and Levin went out into the hall
to them.

After his levee, that is to say, giving directions about the labors of
the next day, and seeing all the peasants who had business with him,
Levin went back to his study and sat down to work.

Laska lay under the table; Agafea Mihalovna settled herself in her
place with her stocking.

After writing for a little while, Levin suddenly thought with
exceptional vividness of Kitty, her refusal, and their last meeting. He
got up and began walking about the room.

“What’s the use of being dreary?” said Agafea Mihalovna. “Come, why do
you stay on at home? You ought to go to some warm springs, especially
now you’re ready for the journey.”

“Well, I am going away the day after tomorrow, Agafea Mihalovna; I must
finish my work.”

“There, there, your work, you say! As if you hadn’t done enough for the
peasants! Why, as ’tis, they’re saying, ‘Your master will be getting
some honor from the Tsar for it.’ Indeed and it is a strange thing; why
need you worry about the peasants?”

“I’m not worrying about them; I’m doing it for my own good.”

Agafea Mihalovna knew every detail of Levin’s plans for his land. Levin
often put his views before her in all their complexity, and not
uncommonly he argued with her and did not agree with her comments. But
on this occasion she entirely misinterpreted what he had said.

“Of one’s soul’s salvation we all know and must think before all else,”
she said with a sigh. “Parfen Denisitch now, for all he was no scholar,
he died a death that God grant everyone of us the like,” she said,
referring to a servant who had died recently. “Took the sacrament and
all.”

“That’s not what I mean,” said he. “I mean that I’m acting for my own
advantage. It’s all the better for me if the peasants do their work
better.”

“Well, whatever you do, if he’s a lazy good-for-nought, everything’ll
be at sixes and sevens. If he has a conscience, he’ll work, and if not,
there’s no doing anything.”

“Oh, come, you say yourself Ivan has begun looking after the cattle
better.”

“All I say is,” answered Agafea Mihalovna, evidently not speaking at
random, but in strict sequence of idea, “that you ought to get married,
that’s what I say.”

Agafea Mihalovna’s allusion to the very subject he had only just been
thinking about, hurt and stung him. Levin scowled, and without
answering her, he sat down again to his work, repeating to himself all
that he had been thinking of the real significance of that work. Only
at intervals he listened in the stillness to the click of Agafea
Mihalovna’s needles, and recollecting what he did not want to remember,
he frowned again.

At nine o’clock they heard the bell and the faint vibration of a
carriage over the mud.

“Well, here’s visitors come to us, and you won’t be dull,” said Agafea
Mihalovna, getting up and going to the door. But Levin overtook her.
His work was not going well now, and he was glad of a visitor, whoever
it might be.