his apartments and asked him to order anything he might need, and assured him that he regarded Peter Ivánovich’s visit as a piece of luck, and when, examining the visiting-cards and throwing them into a vase, he called out the names of Count S⸺, Prince D⸺, and so forth.
Natálya Nikoláevna said that she would not receive anybody and that she would go at once to the house of Márya Ivánovna, to which Peter Ivánovich consented, though he wished very much to talk to some of the visitors.
Only one visitor managed to get through before the refusal to meet him. That was Pákhtin. If this man had been asked why he went away from the Prechístenka to go to Gazette Lane, he would have been unable to give any excuse, except that he was fond of everything new and remarkable, and so had come to see Peter Ivánovich, as something rare. One would think that, coming to see a stranger for no other reason than that, he would have been embarrassed. But the contrary was true. Peter Ivánovich and his son and Sónya Petróvna became embarrassed. Natálya Nikoláevna was too much of a grande dame to become embarrassed for any reason whatever. The weary glance of her beautiful black eyes was calmly lowered on Pákhtin. But Pákhtin was refreshing, self-contented, and gaily amiable, as always. He was a friend of Márya Ivánovna’s.
“Ah!” said Natálya Nikoláevna.
“Not a friend—the difference of our years—but she has always been kind to me.”
Pákhtin was an old admirer of Peter Ivánovich’s—he knew his companions. He hoped that he could be useful to the newcomers. He would have appeared the previous evening, but could not find the time, and begged to be excused, and sat down and talked for a long time.
“Yes, I must tell you, I have found many changes in Russia since then,” Peter Ivánovich said, in reply to a question.