Pyotr brought in a glass of tea on a tray.  Fyodor drank it without sugar, and asked for more.  He drank a great deal of tea, and could get through as many as ten glasses in the evening.

“I tell you what, brother,” he said, getting up and going to his brother.  “Laying aside philosophic subtleties, you must get elected on to the town council, and little by little we will get you on to the local Board, and then to be an alderman.  And as time goes on —­you are a clever man and well-educated—­you will be noticed in Petersburg and asked to go there—­active men on the provincial assemblies and town councils are all the fashion there now—­and before you are fifty you’ll be a privy councillor, and have a ribbon across your shoulders.”

Laptev made no answer; he knew that all this—­being a privy councillor and having a ribbon over his shoulder—­was what Fyodor desired for himself, and he did not know what to say.

The brothers sat still and said nothing.  Fyodor opened his watch and for a long, long time gazed into it with strained attention, as though he wanted to detect the motion of the hand, and the expression of his face struck Laptev as strange.

They were summoned to supper.  Laptev went into the dining-room, while Fyodor remained in the study.  The argument was over and Yartsev was speaking in the tones of a professor giving a lecture: 

“Owing to differences of climate, of energy, of tastes, of age, equality among men is physically impossible.  But civilised man can make this inequality innocuous, as he has already done with bogs and bears.  A learned man succeeded in making a cat, a mouse, a falcon, a sparrow, all eat out of one plate; and education, one must hope, will do the same thing with men.  Life continually progresses, civilisation makes enormous advances before our eyes, and obviously a time will come when we shall think, for instance, the present condition of the factory population as absurd as we now do the state of serfdom, in which girls were exchanged for dogs.”

“That won’t be for a long while, a very long while,” said Kostya, with a laugh, “not till Rothschild thinks his cellars full of gold absurd, and till then the workers may bend their backs and die of hunger.  No; that’s not it.  We mustn’t wait for it; we must struggle for it.  Do you suppose because the cat eats out of the same saucer as the mouse—­do you suppose that she is influenced by a sense of conscious intelligence?  Not a bit of it!  She’s made to do it by force.”

“Fyodor and I are rich; our father’s a capitalist, a millionaire.  You will have to struggle with us,” said Laptev, rubbing his forehead with his hand.  “Struggle with me is an idea I cannot grasp.  I am rich, but what has money given me so far?  What has this power given me?  In what way am I happier than you?  My childhood was slavery, and money did not save me from the birch.  When Nina was ill and died, my money did not help her.  If people don’t care for me, I can’t make them like me if I spend a hundred million.”