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eyes now.
“Because the forest is worth at least a hundred and fifty roubles
the acre,” answered Levin.
“Oh, these farmers!” said Stepan Arkadyevitch playfully. “Your
tone of contempt for us poor townsfolk!... But when it comes to busi-
ness, we do it better than anyone. I assure you I have reckoned it all
out,” he said, “and the forest is fetching a very good price—so much so
that I’m afraid of this fellow’s crying off, in fact. You know it’s not
‘timber,’” said Stepan Arkadyevitch, hoping by this distinction to con-
vince Levin completely of the unfairness of his doubts. “And it won’t
run to more than twenty-five yards of fagots per acre, and he’s giving
me at the rate of seventy roubles the acre.”
Levin smiled contemptuously. “I know,” he thought, “that fashion
not only in him, but in all city people, who, after being twice in ten years
in the country, pick up two or three phrases and use them in season
and out of season, firmly persuaded that they know all about it. ‘Tim-
ber, run to so many yards the acre.’ He says those words without
understanding them himself.”
“I wouldn’t attempt to teach you what you write about in your
office,” said he, “and if need arose, I should come to you to ask about it.
But you’re so positive you know all the lore of the forest. It’s difficult.
Have you counted the trees?”
“How count the trees?” said Stepan Arkadyevitch, laughing, still
trying to draw his friend out of his ill-temper. “Count the sands of the
sea, number the stars. Some higher power might do it.”
“Oh, well, the higher power of Ryabinin can. Not a single mer-
chant ever buys a forest without counting the trees, unless they get it
given them for nothing, as you’re doing now. I know your forest. I go
there every year shooting, and your forest’s worth a hundred and fifty
roubles and acre paid down, while he’s giving you sixty by installments.
So that in fact you’re making him a present of thirty thousand.”
“Come, don’t let your imagination run away with you,” said Stepan
Arkadyevitch piteously. “Why was it none would give it, then?”
“Why, because he has an understanding with the merchants; he’s
bought them off. I’ve had to do with all of them; I know them. They’re
not merchants, you know: they’re speculators. He wouldn’t look at a
bargain that gave him ten, fifteen per cent profit, but holds back to buy
a rouble’s worth for twenty kopecks.”
“Well, enough of it! You’re out of temper.”
“Not the least,” said Levin gloomily, as they drove up to the house.
At the steps there stood a trap tightly covered with iron and leather,
with a sleek horse tightly harnessed with broad collar-straps. In the
trap sat the chubby, tightly belted clerk who served Ryabinin as coach-
man. Ryabinin himself was already in the house, and met the friends
in the hall. Ryabinin was a tall, thinnish, middle-aged man, with mus-
tache and a projecting clean-shaven chin, and prominent muddy-look-
ing eyes. He was dressed in a long-skirted blue coat, with buttons
below the waist at the back, and wore high boots wrinkled over the
ankles and straight over the calf, with big galoshes drawn over them.
He rubbed his face with his handkerchief, and wrapping round him his
coat, which sat extremely well as it was, he greeted them with a smile,
holding out his hand to Stepan Arkadyevitch, as though he wanted to
catch something.
“So here you are,” said Stepan Arkadyevitch, giving him his hand.
“That’s capital.”
“I did not venture to disregard your excellency’s commands, though
the road was extremely bad. I positively walked the whole way, but I
am here at my time. Konstantin Dmitrievitch, my respects”; he turned