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sob with the rapture that was flooding his heart. “And how dared I
associate a thought of anything not innocent with this touching crea-
ture? And, yes, I do believe it’s true what Darya Alexandrovna told
me,” he thought.
Stepan Arkadyevitch took him by the arm and led him away to
Karenin.
“Let me introduce you.” He mentioned their names.
“Very glad to meet you again,” said Alexey Alexandrovitch coldly,
shaking hands with Levin.
“You are acquainted?” Stepan Arkadyevitch asked in surprise.
“We spent three hours together in the train,” said Levin smiling,
“but got out, just as in a masquerade, quite mystified—at least I was.”
“Nonsense! Come along, please,” said Stepan Arkadyevitch, point-
ing in the direction of the dining room.
The men went into the dining-room and went up to a table, laid
with six sorts of spirits and as many kinds of cheese, some with little
silver spades and some without, caviar, herrings, preserves of various
kinds, and plates with slices of French bread.
The men stood round the strong-smelling spirits and salt delica-
cies, and the discussion of the Russification of Poland between
Koznishev, Karenin, and Pestsov died down in anticipation of dinner.
Sergey Ivanovitch was unequaled in his skill in winding up the
most heated and serious argument by some unexpected pinch of Attic
salt that changed the disposition of his opponent. He did this now.
Alexey Alexandrovitch had been maintaining that the Russification
of Poland could only be accomplished as a result of larger measures
which ought to be introduced by the Russian government.
Pestsov insisted that one country can only absorb another when it
is the more densely populated.
Koznishev admitted both points, but with limitations. As they
were going out of the drawing room to conclude the argument, Koznishev
said, smiling:
“So, then, for the Russification of our foreign populations there is
but one method—to bring up as many children as one can. My brother
and I are terribly in fault, I see. You married men, especially you,
Stepan Arkadyevitch, are the real patriots: what number have you
reached?” he said, smiling genially at their host and holding out a tiny
wine glass to him.
Everyone laughed, and Stepan Arkadyevitch with particular good
humor.
“Oh, yes, that’s the best method!” he said, munching cheese and
filling the wine-glass with a special sort of spirit. The conversation
dropped at the jest.
“This cheese is not bad. Shall I give you some?” said the master of
the house. “Why, have you been going in for gymnastics again?” he
asked Levin, pinching his muscle with his left hand. Levin smiled,
bent his arm, and under Stepan Arkadyevitch’s fingers the muscles
swelled up like a sound cheese, hard as a knob of iron, through the fine
cloth of the coat.
“What biceps! A perfect Samson!”
“I imagine great strength is needed for hunting bears,” observed
Alexey Alexandrovitch, who had the mistiest notions about the chase.
He cut off and spread with cheese a wafer of bread fine as a spider-
web.
Levin smiled.
“Not at all. Quite the contrary; a child can kill a bear,” he said, with
a slight bow moving aside for the ladies, who were approaching the
table.