‘Maybe I do. And do you know why? You’ll say again that I’m a reactionary, or some other dreadful word like that; but all the same it’s vexing and upsetting for me to see on all sides this impoverishment of the nobility, to which I belong and, despite the merging of the classes, am glad to belong. And impoverishment not owing to luxury - that would be nothing. To live with largesse is a nobleman’s business, which only noblemen know how to do. Now muzhiks are buying up the land around us. That doesn’t upset me - the squire does nothing, the muzhik works and pushes out the idle man. It ought to be so. And I’m very glad for the muzhik. But it upsets me to see this impoverishment as a result of - I don’t know what to call it - innocence. Here a Polish tenant buys a beautiful estate at half price from a lady who lives in Nice. Here land worth ten roubles an acre is leased to a merchant for one. Here you gave that cheat a gift of thirty thousand for no reason at all.’
‘What, then? Count every tree?’
‘Certainly count them. You didn’t count them, but Ryabinin did. Ryabinin’s children will have the means to live and be educated, and yours may not!’
‘Well, excuse me, but there’s something petty in this counting. We have our occupations, they have theirs, and they need profits. Well, anyhow, the deal’s concluded, and there’s an end to it. And here are the fried eggs, my favourite way of doing them. And Agafya Mikhailovna will give us that wonderful herb liqueur ...’
Stepan Arkadyich sat down at the table and began joking with Agafya Mikhailovna, assuring her that he had not eaten such a dinner or supper for a long time.
‘You praise it at least,’ said Agafya Mikhailovna, ‘but Konstantin Dmitrich, whatever you serve him, even a crust of bread, he just eats it and walks out.’
Hard as Levin tried to master himself, he was gloomy and silent. He had to ask Stepan Arkadyich one question, but he could not resolve to ask it and could not find either the form or the moment. Stepan Arkadyich had already gone to his room downstairs, undressed, washed again, put on his goffered nightshirt and got into bed, but Levin still lingered in his room, talking about various trifles, and could not bring himself to ask what he wanted to ask.
‘How amazingly they make soap,’ he said, examining and unwrapping a fragrant cake of soap that Agafya Mikhailovna had put out for the guest but that Oblonsky had not used. ‘Just look, it’s a work of art.’
‘Yes, all sorts of improvements have been made in everything,’ said Stepan Arkadyich, with a moist and blissful yawn. ‘The theatres, for instance, and these amusement ... a-a-ah!’ he yawned. ‘Electric light everywhere ... a-a-ah!’24
‘Yes, electric light,’ said Levin. ‘Yes. Well, and where is Vronsky now?’ he said, suddenly putting down the soap.
‘Vronsky?’ asked Stepan Arkadyich, suppressing a yawn. ‘He’s in Petersburg. He left soon after you did and hasn’t come to Moscow once since then. And you know, Kostya, I’ll tell you the truth,’ he continued, leaning his elbow on the table and resting on his hand his handsome, ruddy face, from which two unctuous, kindly and sleepy eyes shone like stars. ‘It was your own fault. You got frightened by your rival. And as I told you then, I don’t know which side had the greater chances. Why didn’t you just push right through? I told you then that ...’ He yawned with his jaws only, not opening his mouth.
‘Does he know I proposed, or doesn’t he?’ thought Levin, looking at him. ‘Yes, there’s something sly and diplomatic in his face,’ and, feeling himself blushing, he silently looked straight into Stepan Arkadyich’s eyes.
‘If there was anything on her part then, it’s that she was carried away by externals,’ Oblonsky continued. ‘That perfect aristocratism, you know, and the future position in society affected not her but her mother.’
Levin frowned. The offence of the refusal he had gone through burned his heart like a fresh, just-received wound. He was at home, and at home even the walls help.
