Anna Karenina

Nearly two months had gone by. It was already the middle of the hot summer, and Sergei Ivanovich was only now preparing to leave Moscow.

During that time, Sergei Ivanovich had his own events going on in his life. His book, the fruit of six years of toil, entitled An Essay in Survey of the Principles and Forms of Statehood in Europe and Russia, had been finished a year ago. Some sections of the book and the introduction had been printed in periodical publications and other parts had been read by Sergei Ivanovich to people of his circle, so that the ideas of the work could no longer be quite new to the public; but all the same Sergei Ivanovich expected the appearance of the book to make a serious impression in society and cause, if not a revolution in scholarship, at least a great stir in the scholarly world.

This book, after careful polishing, had been published last year and sent out to the booksellers.

Asking no one about it, responding with reluctance and feigned indifference to his friends’ questions about how the book was doing, not even asking the booksellers how the sales were, Sergei Ivanovich watched keenly and with strained attention for the first impression his book would make in society and in literature.

But a week went by, a second, a third, and there was no noticeable impression in society. His friends, the specialists and scholars, sometimes mentioned it, evidently out of politeness. But his other acquaintances, not interested in a book of learned content, did not speak to him about it at all. And in society, which especially now was busy with other things, there was complete indifference. In literature, too, for a whole month there was not a word about the book.

Sergei Ivanovich calculated in detail the time needed to write a review, but a month went by, then another, and there was the same silence.

Only in the Northern Beetle,¹ in a humorous feuilleton about the singer Drabanti, who had lost his voice, were a few scornful words said in passing about Koznyshev’s book, indicating that it had long since been condemned by all and handed over to general derision.

Finally in the third month a critical article appeared in a serious journal. Sergei Ivanovich knew the author of the article. He had met him once at Golubtsov’s.

The author was a very young and sickly feuilletonist, quite pert as a writer, but with extremely little education and timid in his personal relations.

Despite his complete contempt for the author, Sergei Ivanovich set about with complete respect to read the article. The article was terrible.

The feuilletonist had obviously understood the whole book deliberately in a way in which it could not possibly be understood. But he had selected his quotations so cleverly that for those who had not read the book (and obviously almost no one had read it) it was completely clear that the whole book was nothing but a collection of highflown words, which were also used inappropriately (this was indicated by question marks), and that the author of the book was a completely ignorant man. And it was all so witty that Sergei Ivanovich would not have minded displaying such wit himself. That was the terrible thing.

Despite the complete conscientiousness with which Sergei Ivanovich tested the correctness of the reviewer’s arguments, he did not linger for a moment over the shortcomings and mistakes that were being ridiculed - it was too obvious that it had all been selected on purpose - but at once began involuntarily to recall in the smallest detail his meeting and conversation with the author of the article.

‘Did I offend him in some way?’ Sergei Ivanovich asked himself.

And remembering that, when they had met, he had corrected the young man in the use of a word that showed his ignorance, he found the explanation of the article’s meaning.

After this article came a dead silence, both printed and oral, about the book, and Sergei Ivanovich saw that his work of six years, elaborated with such love and effort, had gone by without leaving a trace.

His situation was the more difficult because, once he finished the book, he no longer had the intellectual work that formerly had taken up the greater part of his time.

Sergei Ivanovich was intelligent, educated, healthy, energetic and did not know where to apply his energy. Conversations in drawing rooms, conferences, meetings, committees, wherever one could talk, took up part of his time; but as an inveterate city-dweller, he did not allow himself to be totally consumed by talking, as his inexperienced brother did when he was in Moscow; he was still left with considerable leisure and mental force.