‘Because I do not shake hands with the footman, and the footman is a hundred times better than he.’
‘What a reactionary you really are! What about merging the classes?’ said Oblonsky.
‘Let those who like it merge to their hearts’ content, but it sickens me.’
‘I see you are quite a reactionary.’
‘I have really never considered what I am. I am Constantine Levin, that’s all.’
‘And Constantine Levin is in a very bad temper,’ said Oblonsky, smiling.
‘Yes, I am in a bad temper, and do you know why? Because, excuse me, of your stupid sale.’
Oblonsky wrinkled his face good-naturedly, like an innocent man who was being hurt and interfered with.
‘Oh don’t!’ he said. ‘When has a man ever sold anything without being told immediately after that it was worth much more? But while he is trying to sell nobody offers him more… . No, I see you have a grudge against that unfortunate Ryabinin.’
‘Maybe I have. And do you know why? You will again call me a reactionary or some other dreadful name, but all the same it vexes and hurts me to see on all sides the impoverishment of the noblesse, to which I too belong and to which, in spite of the merging of the classes, I am very glad to belong… . And impoverished not from extravagance. That would not matter so much: to spend like a nobleman is their business — only the noblesse know how to do it. At present the peasants around here are buying land — that does not pain me. The squire does nothing, the peasant works and squeezes out the idler. That is as it should be and I am very glad on the peasant’s account. But it hurts me to see this impoverishment as a result of — shall I call it simplicity? Here a Polish leaseholder buys for half its value the splendid estate of a lady who lives in Nice. There land that is worth ten roubles a desyatina is leased to a merchant for one rouble. And now you, without any reason, have presented that scamp with thirty thousand roubles.’
‘Then what do you want? Is one to count every tree?’
‘Certainly count them! You have not counted them but Ryabinin has! Ryabinin’s children will have the means to live and get an education, while yours may not have!’
‘Well, forgive me, but there is something petty in all this counting. We have our occupation and they have theirs, and they have to make a profit. Anyway the thing is done and there’s an end to it. And here come the fried eggs, just the way I like them best. And Agatha Mikhaylovna will give us some of that excellent herb brandy… .’
Oblonsky sat down to table and began joking with Agatha Mikhaylovna, assuring her that it was long since he had had such a dinner and supper as that day.
‘Well, you appreciate it at least,’ said Agatha Mikhaylovna; ‘but Constantine Dmitrich, whatever one gives him, if it were only a crust of bread, would just eat it and go away.’
Try as Levin would to control himself, he remained morose and silent. There was one question he wanted to put to Oblonsky, but could not bring himself to ask, nor could he find the form to put it in or the moment to ask it. When Oblonsky had gone down to his room and, after again washing, had put on his frilled nightshirt and got into bed, Levin still lingered in his room talking about various trifles and unable to ask what he wanted to know.
‘What wonderful soap they make!’ he said, examining and unwrapping a cake of scented soap Agatha Mikhaylovna had prepared for the visitor, but which Oblonsky had not used. ‘Just look, it is quite a work of art.’
‘Yes, yes, there are all sorts of improvements in everything now,’ said Oblonsky with a moist and beautiful yawn. ‘In the theatres for instance and all places of amusement… . Oh, oh, oh!’ he yawned. ‘Electric light everywhere. Oh, oh!’
‘Yes, electric light,’ said Levin. ‘Yes, by the by, where is Vronsky now?’ he asked, suddenly putting down the soap.
‘Vronsky?’ said Oblonsky, ceasing to yawn. ‘He is in Petersburg. He left soon after you did, and has not been in Moscow once since then. And do you know, Constantine, I will tell you quite frankly,’ he said, leaning his elbow on the table by his bed and supporting on his hand his good-looking, rosy face with its glittering, kind, and sleepy eyes, ‘it was your own fault. You were frightened of a rival. But as I told you then, I do not know who had the better chance. Why did you not make a dash for it? I told you at the time that …’ He yawned, but only with his jaw, without opening his mouth.
‘Does he, or does he not, know that I proposed?’ thought Levin, looking at him. ‘Yes, there is something sly and diplomatic in his face,’ and feeling himself blush, he gazed in silence straight into Oblonsky’s eyes.
‘If there was anything on her side at that time, it was only the external attraction,’ continued Oblonsky. ‘You know his being a perfect aristocrat and his future position in Society had an effect, not on her but on her mother.’
Levin frowned. The insult of the refusal he had had to face burned in his heart like a fresh, newly-received wound. But he was at home and the walls of home are helpful.
‘Wait, wait,’ he began, interrupting Oblonsky. ‘You talk of his being an aristocrat. But I should like to ask you what is Vronsky’s or anyone else’s aristocracy that I should be slighted because of it? You consider Vronsky an aristocrat. I don’t. A man whose father crawled up from nothing by intrigues and whose mother has had relations with heavens knows whom… . No, pardon me, I consider myself and people like me aristocrats: people who can point back to three or four honourable generations of their family, all with a high standard of education (talent and intelligence are a different matter), who have never cringed before anyone, never depended on anyone, but have lived as my father and my grandfather did. I know many such. You consider it mean for me to count the trees in my wood while you give Ryabinin thirty thousand roubles; but you will receive a Government grant and I don’t know what other rewards, and I shan’t, so I value what is mine by birth and labour… . We — and not those who only manage to exist by the bounty of the mighty of this world, and who can be bought for a piece of silver — are the aristocrats.’
‘But whom are you driving at? I agree with you,’ said Oblonsky sincerely and cheerfully, though he felt that Levin ranked him with those who could be bought for silver. Levin’s vehemence sincerely pleased him. ‘Whom are you driving at? Though much of what you say is not true of Vronsky, I am not speaking about that. I want to tell you candidly that if I were you, I’d come to Moscow now with me, and …’
‘No … I don’t know if you knew it or not and I don’t care, but I will tell you: I proposed and was refused, and your sister-in-law (Catherine Alexandrovna) is now only a painful and humiliating memory to me.’
‘Why? What nonsense!’
‘But don’t let us talk about it! Forgive me, please, if I have been rude to you,’ said Levin. Now that he had spoken out he became once more as he had been in the morning. ‘You are not angry with me, Stiva? Please don’t be angry,’ he said smiling, and took his hand.
‘Oh no, not at all! There was nothing to be angry about. I am glad we have had this explanation. And, do you know, the shooting in the early morning is often very good. Should we not go? I would not sleep again after it but go straight from there to the station.’
‘A capital idea!’
Chapter 18
THOUGH Vronsky’s whole inner life was absorbed by his passion, his external life ran unalterably and inevitably along its former customary rails of social and regimental connections and interests. The interests of the regiment occupied an important place in his life,