Anna Karenina
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 merchant 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 an
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
coachman. Ryabinin himself was already in the house, and met the
friends in the hall. Ryabinin was a tall, thinnish, middle-aged man,
with mustache and a projecting clean-shaven chin, and prominent
muddy-looking 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 to
Levin, trying to seize his hand too. But Levin, scowling, made as
though he did not notice his hand, and took out the snipe. “Your honors
have been diverting yourselves with the chase? What kind of bird may it
be, pray?” added Ryabinin, looking contemptuously at the snipe: “a
great delicacy, I suppose.” And he shook his head disapprovingly, as
though he had grave doubts whether this game were worth the candle.
“Would you like to go into my study?” Levin said in French to Stepan
Arkadyevitch, scowling morosely. “Go into my study; you can talk
there.”
“Quite so, where you please,” said Ryabinin with contemptuous dignity,
as though wishing to make it felt that others might be in difficulties
as to how to behave, but that he could never be in any difficulty about
anything.
On entering the study Ryabinin looked about, as his habit was, as
though seeking the holy picture, but when he had found it, he did not
cross himself. He scanned the bookcases and bookshelves, and with the
same dubious air with which he had regarded the snipe, he smiled
contemptuously and shook his head disapprovingly, as though by no means
willing to allow that this game were worth the candle.
“Well, have you brought the money?” asked Oblonsky. “Sit down.”
“Oh, don’t trouble about the money. I’ve come to see you to talk it
over.”
“What is there to talk over? But do sit down.”
“I don’t mind if I do,” said Ryabinin, sitting down and leaning his
elbows on the back of his chair in a position of the intensest
discomfort to himself. “You must knock it down a bit, prince. It would
be too bad. The money is ready conclusively to the last farthing. As to
paying the money down, there’ll be no hitch there.”
Levin, who had meanwhile been putting his gun away in the cupboard, was
just going out of the door, but catching the merchant’s words, he
stopped.
“Why, you’ve got the forest for nothing as it is,” he said. “He came to
me too late, or I’d have fixed the price for him.”
Ryabinin got up, and in silence, with a smile, he looked Levin down and
up.
“Very close about money is Konstantin Dmitrievitch,” he said with a
smile, turning to Stepan Arkadyevitch; “there’s positively no dealing
with him. I was bargaining for some wheat of him, and a pretty price I
offered too.”
“Why should I give you my goods for nothing? I didn’t pick it up on the
ground, nor steal it either.”
“Mercy on us! nowadays there’s no chance at all of stealing. With the
open courts and everything done in style, nowadays there’s no question
of stealing. We are just talking things over like gentlemen. His
excellency’s asking too much for the forest. I can’t make both ends
meet over it. I must ask for a little concession.”
“But is the thing settled between you or not? If it’s settled, it’s
useless haggling; but if it’s not,” said Levin, “I’ll buy the forest.”
The smile vanished at once from Ryabinin’s face. A hawklike, greedy,
cruel expression was left upon it. With rapid, bony fingers he
unbuttoned his coat, revealing a shirt, bronze waistcoat buttons, and a
watch chain, and quickly pulled out a fat old pocketbook.
“Here you are, the forest is mine,” he said, crossing himself quickly,
and holding out his hand. “Take the money; it’s my forest. That’s
Ryabinin’s way of doing business; he doesn’t haggle over every
half-penny,” he added, scowling and waving the pocketbook.
“I wouldn’t be in a hurry if I were you,” said Levin.
“Come, really,” said Oblonsky in surprise. “I’ve given my word, you
know.”
Levin went out of the room, slamming the door. Ryabinin looked towards
the door and shook his head with a smile.
“It’s all youthfulness—positively nothing but boyishness. Why, I’m
buying it, upon my honor, simply, believe me, for the glory of it, that
Ryabinin, and no one else, should have bought the copse of Oblonsky.
And as to the profits, why, I must make what God gives. In God’s name.
If you would kindly sign the title-deed....”
Within an hour the merchant, stroking his big overcoat neatly down, and
hooking up his jacket, with the agreement in his pocket, seated himself
in his tightly covered trap, and drove homewards.
“Ugh, these gentlefolks!” he said to the clerk. “They—they’re a nice
lot!”
“That’s so,” responded the clerk, handing him the reins and buttoning
the leather apron. “But I can congratulate you on the purchase, Mihail
Ignatitch?”
“Well, well....”
Chapter 17
Stepan Arkadyevitch went upstairs with his pocket bulging with notes,
which the merchant had paid him for three months in advance. The
business of the forest was over, the money in his pocket; their
shooting had been excellent, and Stepan Arkadyevitch was in the
happiest frame of mind, and so he felt specially anxious to dissipate
the ill-humor that had come upon Levin. He wanted to finish the day at
supper as pleasantly as it had been begun.
Levin certainly was out of humor, and in spite of all his desire to be
affectionate and cordial to his charming visitor, he could not control
his mood. The intoxication of the news that Kitty was not married had
gradually begun to work upon him.
Kitty was not married, but ill, and ill from love for a man who had
slighted her. This slight, as it were, rebounded upon him. Vronsky had
slighted her, and she had slighted him, Levin. Consequently Vronsky had
the right to despise Levin, and therefore he was his enemy. But all
this Levin did not think out. He vaguely felt that there was something
in it insulting to him, and he was not angry now at what had disturbed
him, but he fell foul of everything that presented itself. The stupid
sale of the forest, the fraud practiced upon Oblonsky and concluded in
his house, exasperated him.
“Well, finished?” he said, meeting Stepan Arkadyevitch upstairs. “Would
you like supper?”
“Well, I wouldn’t say no to it. What an appetite I get in the country!
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 hundred
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 peasants 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 not
bring himself to the point, and could not find the words or the moment
in which to put it. Stepan Arkadyevitch had gone down to his room,
undressed, again washed, and attired in a nightshirt with goffered
frills, he had got into bed, but Levin still lingered in his room,