“Ah! here’s the warrior! Wants to vanquish Bonaparte?” said the old man, shaking his powdered head as much as the tail, which Tíkhon was holding fast to plait, would allow.

“You at least must tackle him properly, or else if he goes on like this he’ll soon have us, too, for his subjects! How are you?” And he held out his cheek.

The old man was in a good temper after his nap before dinner. (He used to say that a nap “after dinner was silver⁠—before dinner, golden.”) He cast happy, sidelong glances at his son from under his thick, bushy eyebrows. Prince Andréy went up and kissed his father on the spot indicated to him. He made no reply on his father’s favorite topic⁠—making fun of the military men of the day, and more particularly of Bonaparte.

“Yes, Father, I have come to you and brought my wife who is pregnant,” said Prince Andréy, following every movement of his father’s face with an eager and respectful look. “How is your health?”