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

the day, whenever she recalled what he had been then, and what she had been, and what they were now, and whenever the past misfortunes, and past joys and loves, vividly rose in her imagination, she was again seized by emotion, and got up and repeated: “What a stupid you are, Pierre, what a stupid not to have prepared me!”

“Why did you not come straight to me? I should have found room for you,” said Márya Ivánovna. “At least, stay to dinner. You will not feel lonesome, Sergyéy⁠—a young, brave Sevastopol soldier is dining here today. Do you not know Nikoláy Mikháylovich’s son? He is a writer⁠—has written something nice. I have not read it, but they praise it, and he is a dear fellow⁠—I shall send for him. Chikháev, too, wanted to come. He is a babbler⁠—I do not like him. Has he already called on you? Have you seen Nikíta? That is all nonsense. What do you intend to do? How are you, how is your health, Natálya? What are you going to do with this young fellow, and with this beauty?”

But the conversation somehow did not flow.

Before dinner Natálya Nikoláevna went with the children to an old aunt; brother and sister were left alone, and he began to tell her of his plans.

“Sónya is a young lady, she has to be taken out; consequently, we are going to live in Moscow,” said Márya Ivánovna.

“Never.”

“Serézha has to serve.”

“Never.”

“You are still as crazy as ever.”

But she was just as fond of the crazy man.

“First we must stay here, then go to the country, and show everything to the children.”

“It is my rule not to interfere in family matters,” said Márya Ivánovna, after calming down from her agitation, “and not to give advice. A young man has to serve, that I have always thought, and now more than ever. You do not know, Pierre, what these young men nowadays are. I know them all: there, Prince Dmítri’s son is all ruined. Their own fault. I am not afraid of anybody, I am an old woman. It is not good.” And she began to talk about the government. She was dissatisfied with it for the excessive liberty which was given to everything. “The one good thing they have done was to let you out. That is good.”

Pierre began to defend it, but Márya Ivánovna was not Pákhtin: they could come to no terms. She grew excited.

“What business have you to defend it? You are just as senseless as ever, I see.”

Peter Ivánovich grew silent, with a smile which showed that he did not surrender, but that he did not wish to quarrel with Márya Ivánovna.

“You are smiling. We know that. You do not wish to discuss with me, a woman,” she, said, merrily and kindly, and casting a shrewd, intelligent glance at her brother, such as could not be expected from her old, large-featured face. “You could not convince me, my friend. I am ending my three score and ten. I have not been a fool all that time, and have seen a thing or two. I have read none of your books, and I never will. There is only nonsense in them!”

“Well, how do you like my children? Serézha?” Peter Ivánovich said, with the same smile.

“Wait, wait!” his sister replied, with a threatening gesture. “Don’t switch me off on your children! We shall have time to talk about them. Here is what I wanted to tell you. You are a senseless man, as senseless as ever, I see it in your eye. Now they are going to carry you in their arms. Such is the fashion. You are all in vogue now. Yes, yes, I see by your eyes that you are as senseless as ever,” she added, in response to his smile. “Keep away, I implore you in the name of Jesus Christ our Lord, from those modern liberals. God knows what they are up to. I know it will not end well. Our government is silent just now, but when it comes later to showing up the nails, you will recall my words. I am afraid lest you should get mixed up in things again. Give it up! It is all nonsense. You have children.”

“Evidently you do not know me, Márya Ivánovna,” said her brother.

“All right, all right, we shall see. Either I do not know you, or you do not know yourself. I just told you what I had on my heart, and if you will listen to me, well and good. Now we can talk about Serézha. What kind of a lad is he?” She wanted to say, “I do not like him very much,” but she only said: “He resembles his mother remarkably: they are like two drops of water. Sónya is you all over⁠—I like her very much, very much⁠—so sweet and open. She is a dear. Where is she, Sónya? Yes, I forgot.”

“How shall I tell you? Sónya will make a good wife and a good mother, but my Serézha is clever, very clever⁠—nobody will take that from him. He studied well⁠—a little lazy. He is very fond of the natural sciences. We have been fortunate: we had an excellent, excellent teacher. He wants to enter the university⁠—to attend lectures on the natural sciences, chemistry⁠—”

Márya Ivánovna scarcely listened when her brother began to speak of the natural sciences. She seemed to feel sad, especially when he mentioned chemistry. She heaved a deep sigh and replied directly to that train of thoughts which the natural sciences evoked in her.

“If you knew how sorry I am for them, Pierre,” she said, with sincere, calm, humble sadness. “So sorry, so sorry. A whole life before them. Oh, how much they will suffer yet!”

“Well, we must hope that they will be more fortunate than we.”

“God grant it, God grant it! It is hard to live, Pierre! Take this one advice from me, my dear: don’t philosophize! What a stupid you are, Pierre, oh, what a stupid! But