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“Would you like supper?”
“Well, I wouldn’t say no to it. What an appetite I get in the coun-
try! Wonderful! Why didn’t you offer Ryabinin something?”
“Oh, damn him!”
“Still, how you do treat him!” said Oblonsky. “You didn’t even
shake hands with him. Why not shake hands with him?”
“Because I don’t shake hands with a waiter, and a waiter’s a hun-
dred times better than he is.”
“What a reactionist you are, really! What about the amalgamation
of classes?” said Oblonsky.
“Anyone who likes amalgamating is welcome to it, but it sickens
me.”
“You’re a regular reactionist, I see.”
“Really, I have never considered what I am. I am Konstantin
Levin, and nothing else.”
“And Konstantin Levin very much out of temper,” said Stepan
Arkadyevitch, smiling.
“Yes, I am out of temper, and do you know why? Because—excuse
me—of your stupid sale...”
Stepan Arkadyevitch frowned good-humoredly, like one who feels
himself teased and attacked for no fault of his own.
“Come, enough about it!” he said. “When did anybody ever sell
anything without being told immediately after the sale, ‘It was worth
much more’? But when one wants to sell, no one will give anything....
No, I see you’ve a grudge against that unlucky Ryabinin.”
“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 peas-
ants 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 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