Serpukhovskoï smiled again. This flattering opinion of him pleased him, and he saw no reason to hide it.
"I, on the contrary, I confess frankly, expected less. But I am glad, very glad. I am ambitious; it is my weakness, and I confess it."
"Perhaps you would n't confess it if you were n't successful," suggested Vronsky.
"I don't think so," replied Serpukhovskoï, smiling again. "I will not say that life would not be worth living without it, but it would be tiresome. Of course I may be mistaken, but it seems to me that I have some of the qualifications necessary to the sphere of activity which I have chosen, and that in my hands power of any sort soever would be better placed than in the hands of many whom I know," said Serpukhovskoï, with the radiant expression of success; "and therefore, the nearer I am to this, the more contented I feel."
"Perhaps this is true for you, but not for everybody. I used to think so, and yet I live, and no longer find that ambition is the only aim of existence."
"Here we have it! Here we have it!" cried Serpukhovskoï, laughing. "I began by saying that I heard about you, about your refusal .... of course I approved of you. There is a way for everything; and I think that your action itself was well, but you did not: do it in the right way."
"What is done, is done; and you know I never go back on what I have done. Besides, I am very well fixed."
"Very well — for a time. But you will not be contented so forever. I do not refer to your brother. He is a very good fellow — just like this host of ours. Hark! hear that?" he added, hearing the shouts and hurrahs. "He may be happy, but this will not satisfy you."
"I don't say that I am satisfied."
"Well, this is not the only thing. Such men as you are necessary!"
"To whom?"
