But she was just as fond of the crazy man.
“First we must stay here, then go to the country, and show everything to the children.”
“It is my rule not to interfere in family matters,” said Márya Ivánovna, after calming down from her agitation, “and not to give advice. A young man has to serve, that I have always thought, and now more than ever. You do not know, Pierre, what these young men nowadays are. I know them all: there, Prince Dmítri’s son is all ruined. Their own fault. I am not afraid of anybody, I am an old woman. It is not good.” And she began to talk about the government. She was dissatisfied with it for the excessive liberty which was given to everything. “The one good thing they have done was to let you out. That is good.”
Pierre began to defend it, but Márya Ivánovna was not Pákhtin: they could come to no terms. She grew excited.
“What business have you to defend it? You are just as senseless as ever, I see.”
Peter Ivánovich grew silent, with a smile which showed that he did not surrender, but that he did not wish to quarrel with Márya Ivánovna.
“You are smiling. We know that. You do not wish to discuss with me, a woman,” she, said, merrily and kindly, and casting a shrewd, intelligent glance at her brother, such as could not be expected from her old, large-featured face. “You could not convince me, my friend. I am ending my three score and ten. I have not been a fool all that time, and have seen a thing or two. I have read none of your books, and I never will. There is only nonsense in them!”
“Well, how do you like my children? Serézha?” Peter Ivánovich said, with the same smile.