CHAPTER 2

THE FOLLOWING NIGHT, Levin reached the club just at the right time. Members and visitors were driving up as he arrived. Levin had not been at the club for a very long while—not since he lived in Moscow, when he was leaving the university and going into society. He remembered the club, the external details of its arrangement, but he had completely forgotten the impression it had made on him in the old days. But as soon as he drove into the wide, semicircular court and got out of the sledge; as soon as he saw in the porter’s room the cloaks and galoshes of members who thought it less trouble to take them off downstairs; as soon as he heard the I/Bell/6 that tolled three times behind its semi-transparent panel to announce him, as he ascended the easy, carpeted staircase, and saw the slow rotation of the glittering I/Statue/9 on the landing, unobtrusively identity-confirming each arriving guest, Levin felt the old impression of the club come back in a rush, an impression of repose, comfort, and propriety.

The difference, of course, was that in the old days the picture included dozens of Class IIs. Tonight there was no drone of busy motors, no dull hum of mechanical servitude. No II/Butler/97 politely removed his hat with careful end-effectors; no II/Porter/6 asked his name at the door and announced it with a Vox-Em flourish when he entered the main hall. Instead a fat and surly peasant in an ill-fitting vest grunted and gestured with a rude thumb to the staircase.

Passing through the outer hall, divided up by screens, and the room partitioned on the right, where a man sat at the fruit buffet, Levin overtook an old man walking slowly in, and entered the dining room full of noise and people.

He walked along the tables, almost all full, and looked at the visitors. He saw people of all sorts, old and young; some he knew a little, some intimate friends. Despite all of society’s convulsions, he did not see a single cross or worried-looking face. All seemed to have left their cares and anxieties downstairs with their hats, and were all deliberately getting ready to enjoy the material blessings of life.

“Ah! Why are you late?” the prince said to Levin, smiling, and giving him his hand over his own shoulder. “How’s Kitty?” he added, smoothing out the napkin he had tucked in at his waistcoat buttons.

“All right; they are dining at home, all three of them.”

“Go to that table, and make haste and take a seat,” said the prince, and turning away he carefully took a plate of eel soup.

Konstantin Dmitrich sat, and an irritated-looking young peasant brought a bowl of soup, carelessly sloshing the hot liquid over the sides and into Levin’s lap. He grimaced in pain and annoyance; the perfect, gyroscopically maintained balance of a Class II waiter would never make such a careless error.

But the others only laughed at the accident, and Levin realized that the view held by those in the club—or, at least, the view loudly expressed by those who wanted to be heard saying the right sorts of things—was very different than his own. It was agreed at every table that Russian life had been much improved by the disappearance of those “pesky” robots, always motoring about underfoot, making one feel self-conscious and intruded upon, their circuits forever buzzing and whirring away.

“To humanity!” said the prince, and raised his glass. “To the New Russia!” echoed Sviashky.

“Levin, this way!” a good-natured voice shouted a little farther on. It was Turovtsin. He was sitting with a young officer, and beside them were two chairs turned upside down. Levin gladly went up to them. He had always liked the good-hearted rake, Turovtsin, and at that moment, after the strain of intellectual conversation, the sight of Turovtsin’s good-natured face was particularly welcome.

And maybe . . . Levin narrowed his eyes and felt his heart pounding in his chest . . .

With exaggerated casualness, Levin smoothed his beard and approached his old friend with an easy smile. Pulling his chair close to the other man’s, breathing hotly into Turovtsin’s ear, he murmured a single word:

“Rearguard.”

“Eh?” responded Turovtsin loudly, his eyes lighting up. Levin’s heart beat faster; his blood roared in his ears. Could it be Turovtsin? Did he share in the Golden Hope? Who would have thought it was foolish Turovtsin?

“Rearguard?” repeated Turovtsin, but loudly, his eyes glittering with anticipatory merriment in his eyes, as if awaiting the punchline.

Levin drew back, stammering. “Ah . . . I thought . . . but, never mind, never mind. I said nothing.”

“Oh, well,” said Turovtsin. “Here, then.” He handed Levin a pair of glasses. “For you and Oblonsky. He’ll be here directly. Ah, here he is!”

“Have you only just come?” said Oblonsky, coming quickly toward them. “Good day. Had some vodka? Well, come along then.”

Levin, with difficulty hiding his disappointment, got up and went with him to the big table spread with spirits and appetizers of the most various kinds. One would have thought that out of two dozen delicacies one might find something to one’s taste, but Stepan Arkadyich asked for something special, and the tetchy adolescent waiter trudged back into the kitchen to search it out. They drank a glass of wine and returned to their table.

“Ah! And here they are!” Stepan Arkadyich said toward the end of dinner, leaning over the back of his chair and holding out his hand to Vronsky, who came up with a tall officer of the Guards.

Vronsky’s face, too, beamed with the look of good-humored enjoyment that was general in the club. He propped his elbow playfully on Stepan Arkadyich’s shoulder, whispering something to him, and he held out his hand to Levin with the same good-humored smile.

“Very glad to see you,” he said, and then added with a wink—or at least, what Levin thought was a wink—“It has been a long time.”

“Yes, yes,” said Levin. In the next moment, a roar of laughter convulsed the table, as Oblonsky described the old slop-slinging peasant who’d replaced the household II/Cook/98. Levin judged that his moment was ripe. He leaned forward, and, laying one hand on the upper part of Vronsky’s arm, whispered the code word both men had heard together from Federov.

“Rearguard.”

For a long moment, the word seemed to shimmer in the air between them, while Levin sought a sign of life in the impassive face across from his. But the count did not whisper “Action.” Instead he laughed genially and meaninglessly, twirled his mustache, and turned away.

Levin turned away as well, his worst suspicions confirmed: the resistance, if there were truly such a thing, could not number Alexei Kirillovich among its ranks.

But what danger did this fact pose to Levin? What should he do? He wished for the means to run a complete analysis of the situation; wished, not for the first or last time, that loyal Socrates were present to give him counsel.

“Well, have we finished?” said Stepan Arkadyich, getting up with a smile. “Let us go.”