his ambition had met with a success which left nothing more to be sought
for in that direction. From his earliest youth upward he had prepared
himself to fill the exalted station in the world to which fate actually
called him later; wherefore, although in his prosperous life (as in the
lives of all) there had been failures, misfortunes, and cares, he had
never lost his quietness of character, his elevated tone of thought, or
his peculiarly moral, religious bent of mind. Consequently, though he
had won the universal esteem of his fellows, he had done so less through
his important position than through his perseverance and integrity.
While not of specially distinguished intellect, the eminence of his
station (whence he could afford to look down upon all petty questions)
had caused him to adopt high points of view. Though in reality he was
kind and sympathetic, in manner he appeared cold and haughty--probably
for the reason that he had forever to be on his guard against the
endless claims and petitions of people who wished to profit through
his influence. Yet even then his coldness was mitigated by the polite
condescension of a man well accustomed to move in the highest circles
of society. Well-educated, his culture was that of a youth of the end of
the last century. He had read everything, whether philosophy or belles
lettres, which that age had produced in France, and loved to quote from
Racine, Corneille, Boileau, Moliere, Montaigne, and Fenelon. Likewise he
had gleaned much history from Segur, and much of the old classics from
French translations of them; but for mathematics, natural philosophy, or
contemporary literature he cared nothing whatever. However, he knew how
to be silent in conversation, as well as when to make general remarks
on authors whom he had never read--such as Goethe, Schiller, and Byron.
Moreover, despite his exclusively French education, he was simple in
speech and hated originality (which he called the mark of an untutored
nature). Wherever he lived, society was a necessity to him, and, both in
Moscow and the country he had his reception days, on which practically
'all the town' called upon him. An introduction from him was a passport
to every drawing-room; few young and pretty ladies in society objected
to offering him their rosy cheeks for a paternal salute; and people even
in the highest positions felt flattered by invitations to his parties.
The Prince had few friends left now like Grandmamma--that is to say, few
friends who were of the same standing as himself, who had had the same
sort of education, and who saw things from the same point of view:
wherefore he greatly valued his intimate, long-standing friendship with
her, and always showed her the highest respect.
I hardly dared to look at the Prince, since the honour paid him on all
sides, the huge epaulettes, the peculiar pleasure with which Grandmamma
received him, and the fact that he alone, seemed in no way afraid of
her, but addressed her with perfect freedom (even being so daring as to
call her 'cousin'), awakened in me a feeling of reverence for his person
almost equal to that which I felt for Grandmamma herself.
On being shown my verses, he called me to his side, and said:
'Who knows, my cousin, but that he may prove to be a second Derzhavin?'
Nevertheless he pinched my cheek so hard that I was only prevented from
crying by the thought that it must be meant for a caress.
Gradually the other guests dispersed, and with them Papa and Woloda.
Thus only Grandmamma, the Prince, and myself were left in the
drawing-room.
'Why has our dear Natalia Nicolaevna not come to-day' asked the Prince
