# Anna Karenina (Dole)/Part Six/Chapter 11

CHAPTER XI
When Levin and Stepan Arkadyevitch reached the peasant's izba, where Levin always stopped when he was out hunting, Veslovsky was already there. He was laughing his merrily contagious laugh, sitting in the middle of the hut and clinging with both hands to a bench from which a soldier, the brother of their host, was pulling him in his efforts to haul off his muddy boots.
"I have only just got here. Ils ont été charmants. Imagine it—they gave me plenty to eat and drink. What bread, 't was marvelous. Délicieux. And such vodka I never tasted! And they utterly refused to take any payment. They kept saying: 'Drink it down,' or something like that."
"Why should they take money? They regarded you as a guest. Do you suppose they had vodka to sell?" asked the soldier, who at last succeeded in pulling off the wet boot together with the mud-stained stocking.
Notwithstanding the dirtiness of the izba, which the huntsmen and their dogs had tracked all over with mud, notwithstanding the smell of bog and gunpowder with which it was filled, and notwithstanding the absence of knives and forks, the three men drank their tea and ate their luncheon with appetites such as only hunting produces. After they had washed up and cleansed off the mud, they went to a hay-loft where the coachman had prepared them beds.
Although it was already dark, not one of the huntsmen felt any inclination to go to sleep. After they had indulged in various recollections and stories of shooting, ​of dogs, and of previous expeditions, the conversation turned on a theme which interested them all. As it happened, Vasenka kept going into raptures over the fascination of this their camp and the fragrance of the hay, and the charm of the broken telyega—it seemed to him to be broken because the front part was taken off—and about the hospitality of the muzhiks, who had given him vodka to drink, and about the dogs, which were lying each at his master's feet.
Then Oblonsky gave an account of a charming meet which he had attended the summer before at the place of a man named Malthus, who was a well-known railway magnate. Stepan Arkadyevitch told what wonderful marshes and game preserves Malthus rented in the government of Tver, what equipages, dog-carts, and wagonettes were provided for the sportsmen, and how a great breakfast tent was carried to the marshes and pitched there.
"I can't comprehend you," exclaimed Levin, raising himself on his hay. "I should think such people would be repulsive to you, I can understand that a breakfast with Lafitte might be very delightful; but isn't such luxury revolting to you? All these people, like all monopolists, acquire money in such a way that they gain the contempt of people; they scorn this contempt and then use their ill-gotten gains to buy off this contempt!"
"You're perfectly right," assented Veslovsky. "Perfectly. Of course Oblonsky does this out of bonhomie, but others say, 'Oblonsky goes there.'" ....
"Not in the least,"—Levin perceived that Oblonsky smiled as he said this. "I simply consider that this man is no more dishonorable than any other of our rich merchants or nobles. They all have got their money by hard work and by their brains."
"Yes, but what kind of hard work? Is it hard work to secure a concession and then farm it out?"
"Of course it is hard work. Hard work in this sense, that if it were not for such men, then we should have no railways."
"But it is not hard work such as the muzhik or the student has."
​"Agreed, but it is work in this sense, that it is a form of activity which gives us results—railways. But perhaps you argue that railways are useless."
"No; but that is another question. I am willing to acknowledge that they are useful. But all gains that are disproportionate to the amount of labor expended are dishonorable."
"But who is to determine the suitability?"
"Property acquired by any dishonest way, by craft," said Levin, feeling that he could not very well make the distinction between honorable and dishonorable. "For example, the money made by stock-gambling," he went on to say, "that is bad, and so are the gains made by fortunes acquired without labor, as it used to be with the speculators in monopolies; only the form has been changed. Le roi est mort, vive le roi! We had only just done away with brandy-farming when the railways and stock-gambling came in; it is all money acquired without work."
"Yes, that may be very wise and ingenious reasoning.—Lie down, Krak," cried Stepan Arkadyevitch, addressing the dog, which was licking his fur and tossing up the hay. Oblonsky was evidently convinced of the correctness of his theory, and consequently argued calmly and dispassionately. "But you do not make the distinctions clear between honest and dishonest work. Is it dishonest when I receive a higher salary than my head clerk, although he understands the business better than I do?"
"I don't know."
"Well, I will tell you one thing: what you receive for your work on yout estate is—let us say—five thousand above your expenses; but this muzhik, our host, hard as he works, does not get more than fifty rubles, and this disparity is just as dishonorable as that I receive more than my head clerk or that Malthus receives more than a railway engineer. On the contrary, it seems to me that the hostility shown by society to these men arises from envy." ....
"No, that is unjust," said Veslovsky; "it cannot be ​envy, and there is something unfair in this state of things."
"Excuse me," persisted Levin. "You say it is unfair for me to receive five thousand while the muzhik gets only fifty; you're right. It is unfair. I feel it, but...."
"The distinction holds throughout. Why do we eat, drink, hunt, waste our time, while he is forever and ever at work?" said Vasenka Veslovsky, who was evidently for the first time in his life thinking clearly on this question, and therefore was willing to be frank.
"Yes, you feel so, but you don't give your estate up to the muzhik," said Stepan Arkadyevitch, not sorry of a chance to tease Levin.
Of late there had arisen between the two brothers-in-law a secretly hostile relationship; since they had married sisters, a sort of rivalry existed between them as to which of them had the best way of living, and now this hostility expressed itself by the conversation taking a personal turn.
"I do not give it because no one demands this of me, and even if I wanted to, I could not," replied Levin.
"Give it to this muzhik; he would not refuse it."
"But how could I give it to him? Should I come with him and sign the deed?"
"I don't know; but if you are convinced that you have not the right...."
"I am not altogether convinced. On the contrary I feel that I have no right to give it away, that I have certain obligations both to the land and to my family."
"No, excuse me; if you consider that this inequality is unjust, then why don't you do so?"
"I do it, only in a negative way, in the sense that I do not try to increase the discrepancy that exists between him and me."
"No, but that is a paradox, if you will allow me to say so."
"Yes, that is a sort of sophistical statement," averred Veslovsky.—"Ho! friend," he exclaimed, addressing ​their host, who had just then come into the loft, making the door creak on its hinges, "aren't you asleep yet?"
"No, how can one sleep? But I supposed you gentlemen were asleep—still, I heard talking. I wanted to get a hook.—Will she bite?" he added, carefully slipping along in his bare feet.
"But where do you sleep?"
"We are on night duty."
"Oh, what a night," exclaimed Veslovsky, catching a glimpse of the edge of the izba and the unharnessed wagons in the faint light of the west through the now widely opened door. "Just listen to those women's voices singing; it is not bad at all. Who is singing, friend?" said he, addressing the muzhik.
"Oh, those are the girls from the farm, singing together."
"Come, let's go out and take a walk! We shall never go to sleep. Come on, Oblonsky."
"What's the use?" said Oblonsky, stretching, "it's more comfortable here."
"Well, then, I'll go alone," exclaimed Veslovsky, jumping up eagerly and putting on his shoes and stockings. "Good-by—da svidanya—gentlemen. If there's any fun, I will come and call you. You have given me good hunting and I won't forget you."
"He 's a splendid young fellow," said Oblonsky, after Veslovsky had gone out and the muzhik had shut the door again.
"Yes, he is," replied Levin, still continuing to think of what they had been talking about. It seemed to him that he had clearly, to the best of his ability, uttered his thoughts and feelings, and yet these men, who were by no means stupid or insincere, agreed in declaring that he indulged in sophistries. This confused him.
"This is the way of it, my friend," said Oblonsky. "One of two things must be: either you must agree that the present order of society is all right, and then stand up for your rights, or confess that you enjoy unfair privileges, as I do, and get all the good out of them that you can."
​"No; if this was unfair, you could not get any enjoyment out of these advantages .... at least I could not. With me the main thing would be to feel that I was not to blame."
"After all, why should we not go out," said Stepan Arkadyevitch, evidently growing tired of this discussion. "You see we are not going to sleep. Come on, let's go out."
Levin made no reply. What he had said in their conversation about his doing right only in a negative sense occupied his mind. "Can one be right only in a negative way?" he asked himself.
"How strong the odor of the fresh hay is," said Stepan Arkadyevitch, as he got up. "It is impossible to go to sleep. Vasenka is hatching some scheme out there. Don't you hear them laughing, and his voice? Won't you come? Come on."
"No, I am not going," said Levin.
"Is this also from principle?" asked Stepan Arkadyevitch, with a smile, as he groped round in the darkness for his cap.
"No, not from principle, but why should I go?"
"Do you know you are laying up misfortune for yourself?" said Stepan Arkadyevitch, having found his cap, and getting up.
"Why so?"
"Don't I see how you are giving in to your wife? I heard how much importance you attached to the question whether she approved of your going off for a couple of days' hunting. That is very well as an idyl, but it does n't work for a whole lifetime. A man ought to be independent; he has his own masculine interests. A man must be manly," said Oblonsky, opening the door.
"What does that mean .... going and flirting with the farm girls?" asked Levin.
"Why not go, if there's fun in it? Ça ne tire pas à conséquence. My wife would not be any the worse off for it, and it affords me amusement. The main thing is the sanctity of the home. There should not be any ​trouble at home. But there is no need of a man's tying his hands."
"Perhaps not," said Levin, dryly, and he turned over on his side. "To-morrow I must start early and I shan't wake any one, and I shall start at daybreak."
"Messieurs, venez vite," called Vasenka, returning. "Charmante! I have discovered her! Charmante! A perfect Gretchen, and she and I have already scraped acquaintance. Truly she is mighty pretty," he cried, with such an expression of satisfaction that any one would think that she had been made for his especial benefit, and that he was satisfied with the work of the one who had prepared her for him.
Levin pretended to be asleep, but Oblonsky, putting on his slippers and lighting a cigar, left the barn and soon their voices died away.
It was long before Levin could go to sleep. He heard his horses munching their hay, then the muzhik setting out with his eldest son to watch the animals in the pasture, then the soldier going to bed on the other side of the loft with his nephew, the youngest son of their host; he heard the little boy in a low voice telling his uncle his impressions regarding the dogs, which to him seemed terrible and monstrous beasts; then the boy asking what these dogs caught, and the soldier in a hoarse and sleepy voice telHng him that the next day the huntsmen would go to the swamp and would fire off their guns; and then, the boy still continuing to ply him with questions, the soldier hushed him up, saying, "Go to sleep, Vaska, go to sleep, and you will see," and soon the man began to snore and all became quiet. All that was heard was the neighing of the horses and the cries of the woodcock.
"Why is this simply revolting?" he asked himself. "Well, what's to be done? It is not my fault." And he began to think of the morrow.
"To-morrow I will start early in the morning, and I will take it on myself not to get excited. I will bring down some woodcock. And there are plenty of snipe! And when I get back, there'll be a letter from Kitty. ​Yes, perhaps Stiva is right; I am not manly toward her; I am too much under my wife's thumb But what is to be done about it? This also is revolting."
Through his dream he heard Veslovsky and Stepan Arkadyevitch gayly talking and laughing. For an instant he opened his eyes. The moon had risen, and through the open doors he saw them standing there in the bright moonlight, and talking. Stepan Arkadyevitch was saying something about the freshness of a young girl, comparing her to a walnut just out of its shell, and Veslovsky laughing his contagious laugh, made some reply, evidently repeating the words spoken by some muzhik, "You'd better be going home."
Levin spoke through his dream, "Gentlemen, to-morrow morning at daybreak."