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

from the Prechístenka to go to Gazette Lane, he would have been unable to give any excuse, except that he was fond of everything new and remarkable, and so had come to see Peter Ivánovich, as something rare. One would think that, coming to see a stranger for no other reason than that, he would have been embarrassed. But the contrary was true. Peter Ivánovich and his son and Sónya Petróvna became embarrassed. Natálya Nikoláevna was too much of a grande dame to become embarrassed for any reason whatever. The weary glance of her beautiful black eyes was calmly lowered on Pákhtin. But Pákhtin was refreshing, self-contented, and gaily amiable, as always. He was a friend of Márya Ivánovna’s.

“Ah!” said Natálya Nikoláevna.

“Not a friend⁠—the difference of our years⁠—but she has always been kind to me.”

Pákhtin was an old admirer of Peter Ivánovich’s⁠—he knew his companions. He hoped that he could be useful to the newcomers. He would have appeared the previous evening, but could not find the time, and begged to be excused, and sat down and talked for a long time.

“Yes, I must tell you, I have found many changes in Russia since then,” Peter Ivánovich said, in reply to a question.

The moment Peter Ivánovich began to speak, you ought to have seen with what respectful attention Pákhtin received every word that flew out of the mouth of the distinguished old man, and how after each sentence, at times after a word, Pákhtin with a nod, a smile, or a motion of his eyes gave him to understand that he had received and accepted the memorable sentence or word.

The weary glance approved of that manoeuvre. Sergyéy Petróvich seemed to be afraid lest his father’s conversation should not be weighty enough, corresponding to the attention of the hearer. Sónya Petróvna, on the contrary, smiled that imperceptible self-satisfied smile which people smile who have caught a man’s ridiculous side. It seemed to her that nothing was to be got from him, that he was a “shyúshka,” as she and her brother nicknamed a certain class of people.

Peter Ivánovich declared that during his journey he had seen enormous changes, which gave him pleasure.

“There is no comparison, the masses⁠—the peasants⁠—stand so much higher now, have so much greater consciousness of their dignity,” he said, as though repeating some old phrases. “I must say that the masses have always interested me most. I am of the opinion that the strength of Russia does not lie in us, but in the masses,” and so forth.

Peter Ivánovich with characteristic zeal evolved his more or less original ideas in regard to many important subjects. We shall hear more of them in fuller form. Pákhtin was melting for joy, and fully agreed with him in everything.

“You must by all means meet the Aksátovs. Will you permit me to introduce them to you, prince? You know they have permitted him to publish his periodical. Tomorrow, they say, the first number will appear. I have also read his remarkable article on the consistency of the theory of science in the abstract. Remarkably interesting. Another article, the history of Serbia in the eleventh century, of that famous general Karbovánets, is also very interesting. Altogether an enormous step.”

“Indeed,” said Peter Ivánovich. But he was apparently not interested in all these bits of information; he did not even know the names and merits of all those men whom Pákhtin quoted as universally known.

But Natálya Nikoláevna, without denying the necessity of knowing all these men and conditions, remarked in justification of her husband that Pierre received his periodicals very late. He read entirely too much.

“Papa, shall we not go to aunty?” asked Sónya, upon coming in.

“We shall, but we must have our breakfast. Won’t you have anything?”

Pákhtin naturally declined, but Peter Ivánovich, with the hospitality characteristic of every Russian and of him in particular, insisted that Pákhtin should eat and drink something. He himself emptied a wineglass of vodka and a tumbler of Bordeaux. Pákhtin noticed that as he was filling his glass, Natálya accidentally turned away from it, and the son cast a peculiar glance on his father’s hands.

After the wine, Peter Ivánovich, in response to Pákhtin’s questions about what his opinion was in respect to the new literature, the new tendency, the war, the peace (Pákhtin had a knack of uniting the most diversified subjects into one senseless but smooth conversation), in response to these questions Peter Ivánovich at once replied with one general profession de foi, and either under the influence of the wine, or of the subject of the conversation, he became so excited that tears appeared in his eyes, and Pákhtin, too, was in ecstasy, and himself became tearful, and without embarrassment expressed his conviction that Peter Ivánovich was now in advance of all the foremost men and should become the head of all the parties. Peter Ivánovich’s eyes became inflamed⁠—he believed what Pákhtin was telling him⁠—and he would have continued talking for a long time, if Sónya Petróvna had not schemed to get Natálya Nikoláevna to put on her mantilla, and had not come herself to raise Peter Ivánovich from his seat. He poured out the rest of the wine into a glass, but Sónya Petróvna drank it.

“What is this?”

“I have not had any yet, papa, pardon.”

He smiled.

“Well, let us go to Márya Ivánovna’s. You will excuse us, Monsieur Pákhtin.”

And Peter Ivánovich left the room, carrying his head high. In the vestibule he met a general, who had come to call on his old acquaintance. They had not seen each other for thirty-five years. The general was toothless and bald.

“How fresh you still are!” he said. “Evidently Siberia is better than St. Petersburg. These are your family⁠—introduce me to them! What a fine fellow your son is! So to dinner tomorrow?”

“Yes, yes, by all means.”

On the porch they met the famous Chikháev, another old acquaintance.

“How did you find out that I had arrived?”

“It would be a shame for Moscow if it did not know it.