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

The Petersburger was more of a European⁠—even with a slight leaning towards Socialism⁠—and in receipt of a very large salary from the different posts he occupied. Nicholas Semyónovitch, on the other hand, was a pure Russian, Orthodox, a bit of a Slavophil, and the owner of many thousands of acres.

They had had five courses for dinner, which was served in the garden; but the heat made it almost impossible to eat, so that all the work of the cook (who received £50 a year) and of his assistants, who had taken special trouble to prepare dinner for the visitor, was wasted. They had only eaten of the iced fish-soup, and the particoloured, prettily shaped ice-pudding, elaborately ornamented with spun sugar and biscuits. Besides the visitor, there had been present at dinner a Liberal doctor, the children’s tutor⁠—a desperately Socialistic, Revolutionary student (but whom Nicholas Semyónovitch was able to keep within bounds)⁠—Nicholas Semyónovitch’s wife, Marie, and their three children; the youngest of whom came only to dessert.

There had been a slight strain during dinner, because Marie, a very nervous woman, was anxious about the derangement of Gógo’s stomach (as is the custom among well-bred people, the name “Gógo” was given to their youngest son, Nicholas), and also because, as soon as a political subject was started by Nicholas Semyónovitch and the visitors, the desperate student⁠—in his eagerness to show that he was not afraid of expressing his opinions to anyone⁠—broke into the conversation. Then the visitor would cease talking, and Nicholas Semyónovitch would try to soothe the student.

They had dined at seven; and after dinner the friends sat on the veranda, refreshing themselves by sipping iced narzán311 with white wine, and conversing.

Their difference of opinion first showed itself on the question of elections: as to whether direct or secondary representation was better⁠—and the discussion was growing heated when they were called to tea in the dining-room, which was carefully protected from the flies by nets. The conversation at tea was general, and directed to Marie, who could take no interest in it because her thoughts were absorbed by some symptoms of the derangement of Gógo’s digestive organs. They were talking about pictures, and Marie maintained that in decadent art there was a certain je ne sais quoi: which could not be denied. She was at that moment not thinking in the least about decadent art, but only repeating what she had often said before. As for the visitor, he did not care about it at all, but he had heard what was being said against decadence, and repeated it so naturally that no one could have guessed that neither decadence nor non-decadence concerned him in the least; and Nicholas Semyónovitch, looking at his wife, felt that she was dissatisfied about something, and that some unpleasantness might be expected⁠—and, besides, it was very dull listening to what she was saying. He thought he must have heard it at least a hundred times.

Rich bronze lamps were lit inside the room, and lanterns outside. The children had been put to bed; Gógo having first been subjected to medical treatment.

The visitor, with Nicholas Semyónovitch and the doctor, went out on to the veranda. The footman brought candles with glass globes, and more narzán, and about midnight they started at last a real, animated conversation as to the best means of government to be adopted at the present, most critical, time for Russia. They all smoked and talked unceasingly.

Outside the gate clanked the bells on the harness of the horses, which had not been fed, and the old driver, sitting inside the calèche, alternately yawned and snored. He had worked for one master twenty years; and with the exception of three to five roubles a month, which he drank, he had sent all his money home to his brother, who worked their land in the village. When the cocks began to crow to one another from bungalow to bungalow (especially one from a neighbouring yard, who had a very loud shrill voice) the driver began to wonder whether they had forgotten him, and got down and went inside the gate. He saw his fare sitting, eating and talking. He became alarmed, and went to look for the footman. He found him in his livery, sitting asleep in the anteroom. The driver woke him up. The footman, formerly a serf, kept his large family out of his wages (it was a good place: he got £20 a year wages, and sometimes another £10 in tips); he had five girls and two boys. He jumped up, pulled himself together with a shake, and went to tell the gentleman that the driver was getting uneasy and asking to be dismissed.

When the footman entered, the discussion was at its height. The doctor also was taking part in it.

“I cannot admit that the Russian people⁠ ⁠…” the visitor was saying, “ought to develop on different lines. Before all things liberty is wanted⁠—political liberty⁠—that liberty⁠ ⁠… as all know well, is the greatest liberty⁠ ⁠… without infringing the rights of others.”

He felt that he was getting a little mixed, and that that was not the right way to put it; but he could not quite remember how it should be put.

“That is so,” answered Nicholas Semyónovitch, anxious to express his own thought, with which he was particularly pleased, and not listening to the visitor⁠—“that is so, but it must be reached by other means⁠—not by a majority of votes, but by common consent. Look at the Mir, how it arrives at its decisions!”

“Oh, that Mir!”

“It cannot be denied,” said the doctor, “that the Slavonic nations have an outlook of their own. Take, for instance, the Polish right of veto. I don’t maintain that it is a better way⁠ ⁠…”

“One moment⁠ ⁠… I will finish what I was going to say,” began Nicholas Semyónovitch. “The Russian people have special characteristics. These characteristics⁠ ⁠…”

But here Iván, the liveried, sleepy-eyed footman, interrupted him.

“The driver is getting uneasy,” he said.

“Please tell him” (the Petersburg visitor