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his own life, to get at that secret in Sviazhsky that gave him such
clearness, definiteness, and good courage in life. Moreover, Levin knew
that at Sviazhsky’s he should meet the landowners of the neighbor-
hood, and it was particularly interesting for him just now to hear and
take part in those rural conversations concerning crops, laborers’ wages,
and so on, which, he was aware, are conventionally regarded as some-
thing very low, but which seemed to him just now to constitute the one
subject of importance. “It was not, perhaps, of importance in the days
of serfdom, and it may not be of importance in England. In both cases
the conditions of agriculture are firmly established; but among us now,
when everything has been turned upside down and is only just taking
shape, the question what form these conditions will take is the one
question of importance in Russia,” thought Levin.
The shooting turned out to be worse than Levin had expected.
The marsh was dry and there were no grouse at all. He walked about
the whole day and only brought back three birds, but to make up for
that—he brought back, as he always did from shooting, an excellent
appetite, excellent spirits, and that keen, intellectual mood which with
him always accompanied violent physical exertion. And while out
shooting, when he seemed to be thinking of nothing at all, suddenly
the old man and his family kept coming back to his mind, and the
impression of them seemed to claim not merely his attention, but the
solution of some question connected with them.
In the evening at tea, two landowners who had come about some
business connected with a wardship were of the party, and the inter-
esting conversation Levin had been looking forward to sprang up.
Levin was sitting beside his hostess at the tea table, and was obliged
to keep up a conversation with her and her sister, who was sitting
opposite him. Madame Sviazhskaya was a round-faced, fair-haired,
rather short woman, all smiles and dimples. Levin tried through her to
get a solution of the weighty enigma her husband presented to his
mind; but he had not complete freedom of ideas, because he was in an
agony of embarrassment. This agony of embarrassment was due to the
fact that the sister-in-law was sitting opposite to him, in a dress, spe-
cially put on, as he fancied, for his benefit, cut particularly open, in the
shape of a trapeze, on her white bosom. This quadrangular opening, in
spite of the bosom’s being very white, or just because it was very white,
deprived Levin of the full use of his faculties. He imagined, probably
mistakenly, that this low-necked bodice had been made on his account,
and felt that he had no right to look at it, and tried not to look at it; but
he felt that he was to blame for the very fact of the low-necked bodice
having been made. It seemed to Levin that he had deceived someone,
that he ought to explain something, but that to explain it was impos-
sible, and for that reason he was continually blushing, was ill at ease
and awkward. His awkwardness infected the pretty sister-in-law too.
But their hostess appeared not to observe this, and kept purposely
drawing her into the conversation.
“You say,” she said, pursuing the subject that had been started,
“that my husband cannot be interested in what’s Russian. It’s quite
the contrary; he is always in cheerful spirits abroad, but not as he is
here. Here, he feels in his proper place. He has so much to do, and he
has the faculty of interesting himself in everything. Oh, you’ve not
been to see our school, have you?”
“I’ve seen it.... The little house covered with ivy, isn’t it?”
“Yes; that’s Nastia’s work,” she said, indicating her sister.
“You teach in it yourself?” asked Levin, trying to look above the
open neck, but feeling that wherever he looked in that direction he
should see it.