a long time, if Sónya Petróvna had not schemed to get Natálya Nikoláevna to put on her mantilla, and had not come herself to raise Peter Ivánovich from his seat. He poured out the rest of the wine into a glass, but Sónya Petróvna drank it.
“What is this?”
“I have not had any yet, papa, pardon.”
He smiled.
“Well, let us go to Márya Ivánovna’s. You will excuse us, Monsieur Pákhtin.”
And Peter Ivánovich left the room, carrying his head high. In the vestibule he met a general, who had come to call on his old acquaintance. They had not seen each other for thirty-five years. The general was toothless and bald.
“How fresh you still are!” he said. “Evidently Siberia is better than St. Petersburg. These are your family—introduce me to them! What a fine fellow your son is! So to dinner tomorrow?”
“Yes, yes, by all means.”
On the porch they met the famous Chikháev, another old acquaintance.
“How did you find out that I had arrived?”
“It would be a shame for Moscow if it did not know it. It is a shame that you were not met at the barrier. Where do you dine? No doubt with your sister, Márya Ivánovna. Very well, I shall be there myself.”
Peter Ivánovich always had the aspect of a proud man for one who could not through that exterior make out the expression of unspeakable