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NINETEEN

Chapter 15

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THE place where they were going to shoot was not far away, by a stream among young aspen trees. When they had reached the wood Levin got down and led Oblonsky to the corner of a mossy and marshy glade, already free from snow. He himself went to a forked birch on the other side and, leaning his gun against the fork of the lower branch, took off his coat, tightened his girdle, and tried whether he could move his arms freely.
The old grey-haired Laska, following close on his heels, sat down warily in front of him and pricked up her ears. The sun was setting behind the forest, and the little birches interspersed among the aspen trees stood out clearly against the evening glow with their drooping branches and their swollen buds ready to burst into leaf. From the thicket, where the snow had not all melted, the water still flowed in branching streamlets with a gentle rippling sound. Small birds chirped and now and then flew from tree to tree.
In the intervals of profound silence last year’s leaves were heard rustling, set in motion by the thawing of the earth and the growth of the grass.
‘Just fancy! One can hear and see the grass growing,’ thought Levin, as he noticed a wet slate-coloured aspen leaf move close to the point of a blade of grass. He stood listening, and gazing down now on the wet mossy ground, now at the attentive Laska, now at the sea of bare tree-tops stretched out before him at the foot of the hill, and now at the darkening sky streaked with fleecy clouds. A hawk flew leisurely past, high above the distant forest; another followed in the same direction and vanished. In the thicket the birds chirped louder and louder and more eagerly. A tawny owl hooted near by, and Laska started, took a few careful steps, and with her head on one side again listened intently. A cuckoo called beyond the river. It called twice in its usual note, then hoarsely and hurriedly and got out of time.
‘Fancy a cuckoo already!’ said Oblonsky, appearing from behind a bush.
‘Yes, I heard,’ answered Levin, so reluctant to disturb the silence of the wood that his own voice sounded unpleasant to him. ‘They won’t be long now.’
Oblonsky’s figure again disappeared behind the bush, and Levin saw the flare of a match, followed by the red glow of a cigarette and a spiral of blue smoke.
Click! click! Oblonsky cocked his gun.
‘And what’s that screaming?’ he asked, drawing Levin’s attention to a long-drawn cry like the high-pitched whinny of a colt in play.
‘Don’t you know? It’s a male hare. But stop talking! Listen, they’re coming!’ Levin almost shouted, cocking his gun.
They heard a shrill whistle in the distance, and after the two seconds’ interval so familiar to sportsmen, another followed, and then a third, and after the third whistle came a cry.
Levin looked to the right and to the left, and there before him against the dull light-blue sky, over the lower branches of the aspen tops, appeared the flying birds. They were flying straight toward him; the near sound of their cry — something like the sound made when tightly stretched cloth is steadily torn — seemed close to his ears; the long beak and neck of a bird were quite visible, and just as Levin took aim a red flash came from behind the bush where Oblonsky was standing and the bird descended like an arrow and then fluttered up again. Another flash, followed by a report, and the bird, flapping its wings as if trying to keep up in the air, remained stationary for a moment and then with a heavy thud fell on the swampy ground.
‘Can I have missed?’ cried Oblonsky, who could not see through the smoke.
‘Here it is!’ answered Levin, pointing to Laska, who with one ear erect, wagging her fluffy, high-arched tail, stepping slowly as if to prolong the pleasure and seeming almost to smile, brought the dead bird to her master. ‘Well, I’m glad you got it,’ said Levin, and while he spoke he was already experiencing a feeling of envy at not having killed the bird himself.
‘A wretched miss with the right barrel,’ replied Oblonsky, reloading. ‘Hush . . . coming!’
Indeed, they heard two shrill whistles quickly following each other. Two snipe, playing and racing one another, whistling but not crying, flew almost over the sportsmen’s heads. Then there were four reports, the birds took a swift turn like swallows and vanished from sight.
· · · · · · ·
The shooting was splendid. Oblonsky brought down two more birds, and Levin brought down two, of which one was not recovered. It began to get dark. Through the young birches, Venus bright and silvery was already shining with her delicate glitter low down in the west, and high up in the east flickered the red fire of the dim Arcturus. Above his head Levin found, and again lost, stars of the Great Bear. The snipe had ceased flying; but Levin decided to stay until Venus which he could see underneath a branch, should rise above it and all the stars of the Great Bear should be visible.
Venus had risen above the branch and the car of the Great Bear as well as its shafts showed clearly against the dark blue sky, but he still waited.
‘Is it not time to go?’ asked Oblonsky.
It was quite quiet in the wood, not a bird stirred.
‘Let’s stay a little longer,’ answered Levin.
‘As you please.’
They were now standing some fifteen yards apart.
‘Stephen!’ said Levin suddenly and unexpectedly; ‘why don’t you tell me whether your sister-in-law is married, or when she will be?’
Levin felt so strong and calm that he thought the answer, whatever it might be, could not agitate him, but he did not at all expect the reply Oblonsky gave him.
‘She has not thought, and is not thinking, of getting married, but she is very ill and the doctors have sent her abroad. They are even afraid for her life.’
‘You don’t mean it!’ exclaimed Levin. ‘Very ill? What’s the matter with her? How did she? . . .’
While they were talking Laska, pricking her ears, kept looking up at the sky and then reproachfully at them.
‘What a time they have chosen to talk,’ thought she. ‘And there it comes flying. . . . Just so, here it is. They’ll miss it. . . .’
But at that moment both men heard a shrill whistle that seemed to smite on their ears; they both seized their guns and there were two flashes and two reports at the same moment. The woodcock that was flying high up instantly folded its wings and fell into the thicket, bending down the thin young shoots.
‘That’s good! It belongs to both!’ cried Levin and ran into the thicket with Laska to look for the bird. ‘Oh! but there was something unpleasant!’ he thought. ‘Yes, of course, Kitty is ill! But what can I do? I am very sorry,’ he thought. ‘Found? good dog!’ he said, taking the warm bird from Laska’s mouth and putting it into his well-filled game-bag.
‘We’ve found it, Stephen!’ he shouted.

Chapter 16

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ON their way home Levin inquired the particulars of Kitty’s illness and of the Shcherbatskys’ plans, and though he would have been ashamed to confess it, what he heard was agreeable to him. It was agreeable because there was still hope for him, and even more because she was suffering, she who had made him suffer so much. But when Oblonsky began to speak of what caused Kitty’s illness and to mention Vronsky’s name, Levin interrupted him:
‘I have no right whatever to know such family details, and frankly I am not interested in them either.’
Oblonsky gave a scarcely perceptible smile on noticing the quick change, so familiar to him, in Levin’s face, which became as gloomy as it had been bright a moment before.
‘Have you finally settled with Ryabinin about the forest?’ asked Levin.
‘Yes, I have. I’m getting a splendid price for it: thirty-eight thousand roubles; eight at once, and the rest to be paid within six years. I have been bothering about it a long time. No one would give more.’
‘The fact is you are giving the forest away,’ said Levin moodily.
‘Why giving away?’ said Oblonsky with a good-natured smile, knowing well that everything would now seem wrong to Levin.
‘Because the forest is worth at least five hundred roubles a desyatina,’ replied Levin.
‘Oh, you country gentlemen!’ said Oblonsky jokingly. ‘And your tone of contempt for us poor townfolk! . . . But when it comes to getting business done, we do it better than anyone. Believe me, I have reckoned it all out,’ continued he, ‘and have sold the forest so well that I am afraid he may change his mind. You know it’s not timber but, for the most part, only fit for fuel,’ said he, hoping by this remark finally to convince Levin of the injustice of his suspicions. ‘And it will not yield more than ten sazhens of wood to the desyatina . . . and he is paying me at the rate of two hundred roubles.’
Levin smiled contemptuously. ‘I know this manner,’ he thought, ‘not his only, but all townsmen’s, who visit the country two or three times in ten years, get hold of two or three expressions, use them in and out of season, and are firmly convinced they know everything. “Timber”, and “yield ten sazhens”. He uses these words but understands nothing about the business.’
‘I should not try to teach you the things you scribble about at your office,’ he said, ‘but in case of need would come to you for advice about them, but you are firmly convinced that you understand all this forest lore. It is not easy! Have you counted the trees?’
‘How can one count the trees?’ said Oblonsky, still anxious to dispel his friend’s ill-humour.
‘ “Count grains of sand, and planets’ rays,
E’en though a lofty mind were able . . .” ’
‘Well, Ryabinin’s lofty mind is able to do it. And no dealer will ever buy without first counting, unless the forest is given to him for nothing, as you are doing. I know your forest. I go shooting there every year, and it is worth five hundred roubles a desyatina cash down, and he is paying you two hundred on long term. That means that you have made him a present of about thirty thousand roubles.’
‘Come, don’t get so carried away,’ said Oblonsky piteously. ‘Why did no one offer more?’
‘Because he and the other dealers are in league, and he has bought them off. I have had dealings with them all, and I know them. They are not genuine dealers, but sharks. He would not consider a deal which would bring him in ten or fifteen per cent; he waits till he can buy at a fifth of the value.’
‘Oh, come! You are down in the dumps to-day.’
‘Not at all,’ said Levin gloomily, just as they drove up to the house.
At the porch stood a little cart strongly bound with leather and iron, and to the cart was harnessed a well-fed horse with broad, tightly-stretched straps. In the cart sat Ryabinin’s clerk (who also performed a coachman’s duties), his skin tightly stretched over his full-blooded face and his belt drawn tight. Ryabinin himself was already in the house and met the two friends in the hall. He was a tall, spare, middle-aged man, with a moustache, a prominent shaven chin, and prominent dim eyes. He wore a long-skirted blue coat with buttons very low down at the back, high boots drawn quite straight over the calves of his legs and crinkled round the ankles, and over them he had on a pair of large goloshes. He wiped his face all round with his handkerchief and smoothing his coat, which was already quite in order, smilingly greeted the new arrivals. He held out his hand to Oblonsky as if he were trying to catch something.
‘Oh, so you have come,’ said Oblonsky taking his hand. ‘That’s right!’
‘I dared not disobey your Excellency’s commands, though the roads are quite too bad. I have literally had to walk all the way, but I have arrived in time. . . .’
‘Constantine Dmitrich, my respects to you!’ he said turning to Levin and trying to catch his hand too. But Levin, frowning, pretended not to see the hand, and began taking the snipe out of the game-bag.
‘You have been pleased to amuse yourself with shooting? What kind of bird may that be?’ added Ryabinin, looking contemptuously at the snipe. ‘Something tasty?’ and he shook his head disapprovingly as if much doubting whether this game were worth the candle.
‘Would you like to go into my study?’ said Levin, frowning moodily, and addressing Oblonsky in French; ‘Go into the study, you can talk things over there.’
‘That would do very well, — or wherever you like,’ remarked Ryabinin with contemptuous dignity, as if to show them that though others might find it difficult to know how to behave with different people, yet for him no difficulty of any kind could ever exist.
On entering the study Ryabinin looked round by force of habit as though to find the icon, but after finding it he did not cross himself. He glanced at the book cupboards and book-shelves with the same look of doubt as he had bestowed on the snipe, smiled contemptuously, and again shook his head disapprovingly, decidedly refusing to admit that this game could be worth the candle.
‘Well, have you brought the money?’ asked Oblonsky. ‘Take a seat.’
‘There won’t be any difficulty about the money. I’ve come to see you and to talk matters over.’
‘Talk what matters over? But do take a seat.’
‘I can do that,’ said Ryabinin, sitting down and putting his arm on the back of his chair in a most uncomfortable way. ‘You must let me off something, Prince. You’re wronging me. As to the money, it is all ready to the last kopek. There will be no delay about the money.’
Levin, who had been putting away his gun in a cupboard, was just going out of the door, but on hearing the dealer’s words he stopped.
‘As it is you are getting the forest for next to nothing,’ he said. ‘He came to me too late, else I would have fixed the price.’
Ryabinin rose and smiled silently, surveying Levin from his feet to his head.
‘He is very close, is Constantine Dmitrich,’ he said, addressing Oblonsky with a smile. ‘It’s absolutely impossible to buy anything of him. I’ve been bargaining with him for wheat and offering a good price.’
‘Why should I give you what is mine for nothing? I have not found it on the ground nor stolen it.’
‘Oh dear no, nowadays it is quite impossible to steal. Absolutely everything nowadays goes before a jury, everything is judged honourably, there’s no possibility of stealing. We speak honestly. It’s too much for the forest, there’s no making any profit on it. I am asking to have something knocked off, if only a trifle.’
‘Well, have you settled the business or not? If you have, there’s no use bargaining, but if not,’ said Levin, ‘I will buy the forest myself.’
The smile vanished from Ryabinin’s face, which assumed a hawk-like, rapacious, and cruel expression. With his bony fingers he rapidly unfastened his coat, exposing his braided shirt, the brass buttons of his waistcoat, and a watch-chain, and quickly took out a thick old pocket-book.
‘If you please, the forest is mine,’ he said, rapidly crossing himself and holding out his hand. ‘Take your money, the forest is mine. That’s the way Ryabinin does business, no fussing about kopeks,’ he said, frowning and flourishing his pocket-book.
‘If I were you I should not be in a hurry to take it,’ remarked Levin.
‘What d’you mean?’ said Oblonsky with surprise. ‘Why, I’ve given my word.’
Levin went out and slammed the door. Ryabinin looked at it and smiled, shaking his head.
‘That’s all his youthfulness, his absolute childishness. Why, I am making this purchase, believe me, just for the honour and glory of the thing, so that it should be Ryabinin and not another that has bought Oblonsky’s forest. But it’s still a question whether by God’s mercy I can make a profit. Believe me, before God! Please, sir, the agreement must be written . . .’
An hour later the dealer, with his coat well lapped over, the hooks of his overcoat carefully fastened, and with the agreement in his pocket, seated himself in his little cart and drove home.
‘Oh, these gentlefolks!’ he remarked to his clerk, while hooking up the leather apron of the cart, ‘regular objects!’
‘But may I congratulate you on the purchase, Michael Ignatich?’
‘Well, well . . .’

Chapter 17

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OBLONSKY went upstairs, his pockets bulging with the treasury-bills payable in three months’ time with which Ryabinin had paid him. The forest transaction was completed, he had the money in his pocket, the shooting had been fine, Oblonsky was in the best of spirits, and therefore all the more anxious to dispel Levin’s ill-humour. He wanted to finish the day at supper as pleasantly as he had begun it.
Levin really was in a bad humour, and in spite of his desire to behave kindly and amiably to his charming guest he could not master himself. The intoxication of the news that Kitty was not married was beginning little by little to take effect on him.
Kitty was unmarried and ill, and ill for love of the man who had slighted her. This insult seemed to fall upon him. Vronsky had slighted her and she had slighted him, Levin. Consequently Vronsky had a right to despise him and was therefore his enemy. But Levin did not think all this. He dimly felt that there was something insulting to him in the affair, and was angry not with what had upset him but with everything that presented itself to him. The stupid sale of the forest, the swindle Oblonsky had fallen a prey to, which had been perpetrated in his house, irritated him.
‘Well, have you finished?’ he said when he met Oblonsky upstairs. ‘Will you have some supper?’
‘I won’t say no. What an appetite I get in the country, wonderful! Why did you not offer Ryabinin something to eat?’
‘Let him go to the devil!’
‘Well, really, how you treat him!’ said Oblonsky. ‘You did not even give him your hand. Why not shake hands with him?’
‘Because I do not shake hands with the footman, and the footman is a hundred times better than he.’
‘What a reactionary you really are! What about merging the classes?’ said Oblonsky.
‘Let those who like it merge to their hearts’ content, but it sickens me.’
‘I see you are quite a reactionary.’
‘I have really never considered what I am. I am Constantine Levin, that’s all.’
‘And Constantine Levin is in a very bad temper,’ said Oblonsky, smiling.
‘Yes, I am in a bad temper, and do you know why? Because, excuse me, of your stupid sale.’
Oblonsky wrinkled his face good-naturedly, like an innocent man who was being hurt and interfered with.
‘Oh don’t!’ he said. ‘When has a man ever sold anything without being told immediately after that it was worth much more? But while he is trying to sell nobody offers him more. . . . No, I see you have a grudge against that unfortunate Ryabinin.’
‘Maybe I have. And do you know why? You will again call me a reactionary or some other dreadful name, but all the same it vexes and hurts me to see on all sides the impoverishment of the noblesse, to which I too belong and to which, in spite of the merging of the classes, I am very glad to belong. . . . And impoverished not from extravagance. That would not matter so much: to spend like a nobleman is their business — only the noblesse know how to do it. At present the peasants around here are buying land — that does not pain me. The squire does nothing, the peasant works and squeezes out the idler. That is as it should be and I am very glad on the peasant’s account. But it hurts me to see this impoverishment as a result of — shall I call it simplicity? Here a Polish leaseholder buys for half its value the splendid estate of a lady who lives in Nice. There land that is worth ten roubles a desyatina is leased to a merchant for one rouble. And now you, without any reason, have presented that scamp with thirty thousand roubles.’
‘Then what do you want? Is one to count every tree?’
‘Certainly count them! You have not counted them but Ryabinin has! Ryabinin’s children will have the means to live and get an education, while yours may not have!’
‘Well, forgive me, but there is something petty in all this counting. We have our occupation and they have theirs, and they have to make a profit. Anyway the thing is done and there’s an end to it. And here come the fried eggs, just the way I like them best. And Agatha Mikhaylovna will give us some of that excellent herb brandy. . . .’
Oblonsky sat down to table and began joking with Agatha Mikhaylovna, assuring her that it was long since he had had such a dinner and supper as that day.
‘Well, you appreciate it at least,’ said Agatha Mikhaylovna; ‘but Constantine Dmitrich, whatever one gives him, if it were only a crust of bread, would just eat it and go away.’
Try as Levin would to control himself, he remained morose and silent. There was one question he wanted to put to Oblonsky, but could not bring himself to ask, nor could he find the form to put it in or the moment to ask it. When Oblonsky had gone down to his room and, after again washing, had put on his frilled nightshirt and got into bed, Levin still lingered in his room talking about various trifles and unable to ask what he wanted to know.
‘What wonderful soap they make!’ he said, examining and unwrapping a cake of scented soap Agatha Mikhaylovna had prepared for the visitor, but which Oblonsky had not used. ‘Just look, it is quite a work of art.’