He stood still at last and shook his head. 'Yes;' he began, 'in
our day young men were brought up differently. Young men did not
permit themselves to be lacking in respect to their elders. And
nowadays, I can only look on and wonder. Possibly, I am all wrong, and
they are quite right; possibly. But still I have my own views of
things; I was not born a fool. What do you think about it, Uvar
Ivanovitch?'

Uvar Ivanovitch could only look at him and work his fingers.

'Elena Nikolaevna, for instance,' pursued Nikolai Artemyevitch,
'Elena Nikolaevna I don't pretend to understand. I am not elevated
enough for her. Her heart is so large that it embraces all nature down
to the least spider or frog, everything in fact except her own father.
Well, that's all very well; I know it, and I don't trouble myself
about it. For that's nerves and education and lofty aspirations, and
all that is not in my line. But Mr. Shubin . . . admitting he's a
wonderful artist--quite exceptional--that, I don't dispute; to show
want of respect to his elder, a man to whom, at any rate, one may say
he is under great obligation; that I confess, _dans mon gros bon sens_,
I cannot pass over. I am not exacting by nature, no, but there is a
limit to everything.'

Anna Vassilyevna rang the bell in a tremor. A little page came in.

'Why is it Pavel Yakovlitch does not come?' she said, 'what does it
mean; I call him, and he doesn't come?'

Nikolai Artemyevitch shrugged his shoulders.