he told me of it himself at once! I never knew him to tell an untruth. A fine lad, a fine lad!” repeated Nikoláy, who at heart was not fond of Nikólenka but was always anxious to recognize that he was a fine lad.
“Still, I am not the same as his own mother,” said Countess Márya. “I feel I am not the same and it troubles me. A wonderful boy, but I am dreadfully afraid for him. It would be good for him to have companions.”
“Well it won’t be for long. Next summer I’ll take him to Petersburg,” said Nikoláy.
“Yes, Pierre always was a dreamer and always will be,” he continued, returning to the talk in the study which had evidently disturbed him.
“Well, what business is it of mine what goes on there—whether Arakchéev is bad, and all that? What business was it of mine when I married and was so deep in debt that I was threatened with prison, and had a mother who could not see or understand it? And then there are you and the children and our affairs. Is it for my own pleasure that I am at the farm or in the office from morning to night? No, but I know I must work to comfort my mother, to repay you, and not to leave the children such beggars as I was.”
Countess Márya wanted to tell him that man does not live by bread alone and that he attached too much importance to these matters. But she knew she must not say this and that it would be useless to do so. She only took his hand and kissed it. He took this as a sign of approval and a confirmation