Short Fiction by Leo Tolstoy (book reader for pc TXT) 📕

“That is so, it is Sunday! We shall by all means all of us go to the Cathedral of the Assumption. Thus will our return begin. O Lord! When I think of the day when I was for the last time in the Cathedral of the Assumption! Do you remember, Natásha? But that is another matter.”

And the head of the family rose quickly from the chair, on which he had just seated himself.

“Now we must settle down!”

And without doing anything, he kept walking from one room to another.

“Well, shall we drink tea? Or are you tired, and do you want to rest?”

“Yes, yes,” replied his wife, taking something out from the trunk. “You wanted to go to the bathhouse, did you not?”

“Yes⁠—in my day it was near Stone Bridge. Serézha, go and find out whether there is still a bathhouse near Stone Bridge. This room here Serézha and I shall occupy. Serézha! Will you be comfortable here?”

But Serézha had gone to find out about the bathhouse.

“No, that will not do,” he continued. “You will not have a straight passage to the drawing-room. What do you think, Natásha?”

“Calm yourself, Pierre, everything will come out all right,” Natásha said, from another room, where peasants were bringing in things.

But Pierre was still under the influence of that ecstatic mood which the arrival had evoked in him.

“Look there⁠—don’t mix up Serézha’s things! You have thrown his snowshoes down in the drawing-room.” And he himself picked them up and with great care, as though the whole future order of the quarters depended upon it, leaned them against the doorpost and tried to make them stand there. But the snowshoes did not stick to it, and, the moment Pierre walked away from them, fell with a racket across the door. Natálya Nikoláevna frowned and shuddered, but, seeing the cause of the fall, she said:

“Sónya, darling, pick them up!”

“Pick them up, darling,” repeated the husband, “and I will go to the landlord, or else you will never get done. I must talk things over with him.”

“You had better send for him, Pierre. Why should you trouble yourself?”

Pierre assented.

“Sónya, bring him here, what do you call him? M. Cavalier, if you please. Tell him that we want to speak about everything.”

“Chevalier, papa,” said Sónya, ready to go out.

Natálya Nikoláevna, who was giving her commands in a soft voice, and was softly stepping from room to room, now with a box, now with a pipe, now with a pillow, imperceptibly finding places for a mountain of baggage, in passing Sónya, had time to whisper to her:

“Do not go yourself, but send a man!”

While a man went to call the landlord, Pierre used his leisure, under the pretext of aiding his consort, in crushing a garment of hers and in stumbling against an empty box. Steadying himself with his hand against the wall, the Decembrist looked around with a smile; but Sónya was looking at him with such smiling eyes that she seemed to be waiting for permission to laugh. He readily granted her that permission, and himself burst out into such a good-natured laugh that all those who were in the room, his wife, the maids, and the peasants, laughed with him. This laughter animated the old man still more. He discovered that the divan in the room for his wife and daughter was not standing very conveniently for them, although they affirmed the opposite, and asked him to calm himself. Just as he was trying with his own hands to help a peasant to change the position of that piece of furniture, the landlord, a Frenchman, entered the room.

“You sent for me,” the landlord asked sternly and, in proof of his indifference, if not contempt, slowly drew out his handkerchief, slowly unfolded it, and slowly cleared his nose.

“Yes, my dear sir,” said Peter Ivánovich, stepping up toward him, “you see, we do not know ourselves how long we are going to stay here, I and my wife⁠—” and Peter Ivánovich, who had the weakness of seeing a neighbour in every man, began to expound his plans and affairs to him.

M. Chevalier did not share that view of people and was not interested in the information communicated to him by Peter Ivánovich, but the good French which Peter Ivánovich spoke (the French language, as is known, is something like rank in Russia) and his lordly manner somewhat raised the landlord’s opinion about the newcomers.

“What can I do for you?” he asked.

This question did not embarrass Peter Ivánovich. He expressed his desire to have rooms, tea, a samovar, supper, dinner, food for the servants, in short, all those things for which hotels exist, and when M. Chevalier, marvelling at the innocence of the old man, who apparently imagined that he was in the Trukhmén steppe, or supposed that all these things would be given him without pay, informed him that he could have all those things, Peter Ivánovich was in ecstasy.

“Now that is nice! Very nice! And so we shall get things all fixed. Well, then please⁠—” but he felt embarrassed to be speaking all the time about himself, and he began to ask M. Chevalier about his family and his business. When Sergyéy Petróvich returned to the room, he did not seem to approve of his father’s address; he observed the landlord’s dissatisfaction, and reminded his father of the bath. But Peter Ivánovich was interested in the question of how a French hotel could be run in Moscow in the year ’56, and of how Madame Chevalier passed her time. Finally the landlord himself bowed and asked him whether he was not pleased to order anything.

“We will have tea, Natásha. Yes? Tea, then, if you please! We will have some other talks, my dear monsieur! What a charming man!”

“And the bath, papa?”

“Oh, yes, then we shall have no tea.”

Thus the only result from the conversation with the newly arrived guests was taken from the landlord. But Peter Ivánovich was now proud and happy of