"Maybe I have. And do you know why? You'll say again that I'm a

reactionist, or some other terrible word; but all the same it

does annoy and anger me to see on all sides the impoverishing of

the nobility to which I belong, and, in spite of the amalgamation

of classes, I'm glad to belong. And their impoverishment is not

due to extravagance--that would be nothing; living in good style

--that's the proper thing for noblemen; it's only the nobles who

know how to do it. Now the peasants about us buy land, and I

don't mind that. The gentleman does nothing, while the peasant

works and supplants the idle man. That's as it ought to be. And

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I'm very glad for the peasant. But I do mind seeing the process

of impoverishment from a sort of--I don't know what to call it--

innocence. Here a Polish speculator bought for half its value a

magnificent estate from a young lady who lives in Nice. And

there a merchant will get three acres of land, worth ten roubles,

as security for the loan of one rouble. Here, for no kind of

reason, you've made that rascal a present of thirty thousand

roubles."

"Well, what should I have done? Counted every tree?"

"Of course, they must be counted. You didn't count them, but

Ryabinin did. Ryabinin's children will have means of livelihood

and education, while yours maybe will not!"

"Well, you must excuse me, but there's something mean in this

counting. We have our business and they have theirs, and they

must make their profit. Anyway, the thing's done, and there's an

end of it. And here come some poached eggs, my favorite dish.

And Agafea Mihalovna will give us that marvelous herb-brandy..."

Stepan Arkadyevitch sat down at the table and began joking with

Agafea Mihalovna, assuring her that it was long since he had

tasted such a dinner and such a supper.

"Well, you do praise it, anyway," said Agafea Mihalovna, "but

Konstantin Dmitrievitch, give him what you will--a crust of

bread--he'll eat it and walk away."

Though Levin tried to control himself, he was gloomy and silent.

He wanted to put one question to Stepan Arkadyevitch, but he

could not bring himself to the point, and could not find the

words or the moment in which to put it. Stepan Arkadyevitch had

gone down to his room, undressed, again washed, and attired in a

nightshirt with goffered frills, he had got into bed, but Levin

still lingered in his room, talking of various trifling matters,

and not daring to ask what he wanted to know.




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