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