# The Complete Works of Count Tolstoy/Childhood/Chapter 18

XVIII.
Prince Iván Ivánovich
When the princess had listened to the poem and had showered praises on the author, grandmother softened, began to speak in French with her, stopped calling her "you, my dear," and invited her to visit us in the evening with all her children. The princess promised she would, and, after staying awhile, departed.
There came so many guests that day to congratulate grandmother that in the courtyard, near the entrance, there were always several carriages standing, the whole morning.
"Bonjour, chère cousine," said one of the guests as he entered the room and kissed grandmother's hand.
He was a man of some seventy years of age, of tall stature, in a military uniform, with large epaulets, below the collar of which could be seen a large white cross, and with a calm, open countenance. I was struck by the freedom and simplicity of his movements. Although there was left but a small circle of scanty hair on the back of his head, and although the position of the upper lip gave clear evidence of the absence of teeth, his face was still one of remarkable beauty.
Prince Iván Ivánovich had, while still very young, made a brilliant career at the end of the last century, thanks to his noble character, fine looks, remarkable bravery, distinguished and powerful connections, and, ​especially, luck. He remained in the service, and his ambition was soon so well satisfied, that there was nothing more for him to wish in that respect. He had carried himself from his very youth as if he had been preparing himself to occupy that illustrious place in the world where fate had later put him. Therefore, although in his brilliant and somewhat vain life, as in all other lives, there were annoyances, disappointments and failures, he not even once was false to his ever calm character, nor to his high ideals, nor to the fundamental tenets of religion and morality, and he earned universal respect not only on the basis of his high position, but on the basis also of his consistency and fortitude.
He was a man of mediocre mind, but, thanks to his position, which permitted him to look with disdain at all the vain tribulations of life, his ideals were of an elevated character. He was good and sympathetic, but somewhat cold and haughty in manner. That came from his being placed in a position where he could be useful to many, so that by his coldness he endeavoured to guard himself against the unrelenting prayers and requests of people who wished to make use of his influence. His coldness, however, was softened by the condescending civility of a man of the great world. He was well educated and well read; but his education stopped at what he had acquired in youth, that is, at the end of the last century. He had read everything worth while that had been written in France during the eighteenth century in the field of philosophy and eloquence, knew thoroughly all the best productions of French literature, so that he could and did with pleasure quote passages from Racine, Corneille, Boileau, Molière, Montaigne, Fénelon; he was brilliantly versed in mythology, and with benefit had studied, in French translations, the ancient monuments of epic poetry; he had a fair knowledge of history, which he drew from Ségur; but he did not have the least concep​tion of mathematics, beyond arithmetic, nor of physics, nor of contemporaneous literature; he could in a conversation politely suppress, or even express, a few commonplaces about Goethe, Schiller, and Byron, but he never had read them.
In spite of this French classical education, of which there are but few examples left now, his conversation was simple, and this simplicity at the same time hid his ignorance of certain things, and also gave evidence of his agreeable manner and indulgence. He was a great enemy of all originality, maintaining that originality was a trick of people in bad society, Society was a matter of necessity to him, wherever he happened to be; whether in Moscow, or abroad, he always lived in the same open fashion, and upon certain days received the whole city at his house. The prince was on such a footing in the city, that an invitation from him could serve as a passport into all the parlours, that many young and beautiful women gladly offered him their rosy cheeks, which he kissed, as it were, with the feeling of a father, and that apparently distinguished and decent people expressed indescribable joy when they were admitted to his receptions.
There were but few people left to the prince, like grandmother, who were of the same circle, the same bringing up, the same point of view, and the same age with him, so he particularly valued his old friendship with her, and always showed her great respect.
I did not get tired looking at the prince; the respect which everybody showed him, the large epaulets, the particular joy which grandmother expressed upon seeing him, and the fact that he alone, evidently, was not afraid of her, conversed with her entirely at his ease, and even had the courage to call her "ma cousine," inspired in me a respect for him, equal to, if not greater than, that which I felt for my father. When they showed him my poem, he called me to him and said:
​“Who knows, ma cousine, maybe he will be another Derzhávin.”
Saying this, he gave me a painful pinch in my cheek. If I did not cry out loud, it was only because I decided to take it as a favour.
The guests departed, papa and Volódya went out; in the drawing-room were left the prince, grandmother, and I.
"Why did not our dear Natálya Nikoláevna come?" suddenly asked Prince Iván Ivánovich, after a moment's silence.
"Ah, mon cher!" answered grandmother, lowering her voice, and putting her hand on the sleeve of his uniform: "She, no doubt, would have come, if she were at liberty to do what she pleases. She writes me that Pierre had proposed her going, but that she had herself declined because, says she, they had had no income this year. She writes, 'Besides, I have no reason to settle in Moscow this year with my whole house. Lyúbochka is too young yet; and as to the boys, who will be living with you, I am more at ease than if they stayed with me.' That is all very nice!" continued grandmother, in a tone that clearly showed she did not find it at all very nice. "The boys ought to have been sent here long ago, to learn something, and to get used to the world, for what kind of an education could they get in the country? The eldest will soon be thirteen years, and the other eleven. You have noticed, mon cousin, they are here like savages, — they do not know how to enter a room."
"I can’t, however, understand," answered the prince, "what is the cause of their eternal complaint about ruinous conditions? He has some very good property, and Natásha’s Khabárovka, where you and I, in times long gone, used to play theatre, I know like the five fingers of my hand; it is a magnificent estate, and ought to bring a nice income."
​"I will tell you as a true friend," grandmother interrupted him, with a sad countenance, "it seems to me that these are only excuses, so as to give him a chance to live here alone, to frequent clubs and dinners, and to do God knows what; but she does not suspect anything. You know what an angelic soul she is; she has complete confidence in him. He had assured her that the children ought to be taken to Moscow, and that she ought to stay all alone, with the stupid governess, in the country, — and she believed him. If he were to tell her that the children ought to be whipped, as Princess Várvara Ilínichna whips them, she, I think, would at once consent," said grandmother, moving about in her chair, with an expression of deep disgust. "Yes, my friend," continued grandmother, after a moment's silence, and raising one of her two handkerchiefs, to wipe off a tear which had made its appearance, "I often think that he can neither value nor understand her, and that in spite of all her goodness, her love for him, and her desire to hide her grief, — I know that well, — she cannot be happy with him. Remember what I say, he will —"
Grandmother covered her face with her handkerchief.
"Eh, ma bonne amie," said the prince, chidingly, "I see you have not become wiser in the least, — you eternally worry and weep for an imaginary sorrow. Really, are you not ashamed? I have known him for a long time, and I have known him as an attentive, good, and excellent husband, and, above all, as a very noble man, un parfait honnêt homme."
Having involuntarily heard the conversation, which I ought not to have heard, I slipped out of the room on tiptoe, and in great agitation.