Kochubéy shook his head smilingly, as if surprised at Bolkónski’s simplicity.
“We were talking to him about you a few days ago,” Kochubéy continued, “and about your freed plowmen.”
“Oh, is it you, Prince, who have freed your serfs?” said an old man of Catherine’s day, turning contemptuously toward Bolkónski.
“It was a small estate that brought in no profit,” replied Prince Andréy, trying to extenuate his action so as not to irritate the old man uselessly.
“Afraid of being late …” said the old man, looking at Kochubéy.
“There’s one thing I don’t understand,” he continued. “Who will plow the land if they are set free? It is easy to write laws, but difficult to rule. … Just the same as now—I ask you, Count—who will be heads of the departments when everybody has to pass examinations?”
“Those who pass the examinations, I suppose,” replied Kochubéy, crossing his legs and glancing round.
“Well, I have Pryánichnikov serving under me, a splendid man, a priceless man, but he’s sixty. Is he to go up for examination?”
“Yes, that’s a difficulty, as education is not at all general, but …”
Count Kochubéy did not finish. He rose, took Prince Andréy by the arm, and went to meet a tall, bald, fair man of about forty with a large open forehead and a long face of unusual and peculiar whiteness, who was just entering. The newcomer wore a blue swallowtail coat with a cross suspended from his neck and a star on his left breast. It was Speránski. Prince Andréy recognized him at once, and felt a throb within him, as happens at critical moments of life. Whether it was from respect, envy, or anticipation, he did not know. Speránski’s whole figure was of a