cordially welcomed and courted him, in the first place because he was reputed to be clever and very well read, and secondly because by liberating his serfs he had obtained the reputation of being a liberal. The party of the old and dissatisfied, who censured the innovations, turned to him expecting his sympathy in their disapproval of the reforms, simply because he was the son of his father. The feminine society world welcomed him gladly, because he was rich, distinguished, a good match, and almost a newcomer, with a halo of romance on account of his supposed death and the tragic loss of his wife. Besides this the general opinion of all who had known him previously was that he had greatly improved during these last five years, having softened and grown more manly, lost his former affectation, pride, and contemptuous irony, and acquired the serenity that comes with years. People talked about him, were interested in him, and wanted to meet him.
The day after his interview with Count Arakchéev, Prince Andréy spent the evening at Count Kochubéy’s. He told the count of his interview with Síla Andréevich (Kochubéy spoke of Arakchéev by that nickname with the same vague irony Prince Andréy had noticed in the Minister of War’s anteroom).
“ Mon cher , even in this case you can’t do without Mikháil Mikháilovich. He manages everything. I’ll speak to him. He has promised to come this evening.”
“What has Speránski to do with the army regulations?” asked Prince Andréy.
Kochubéy shook his head smilingly, as if surprised at Bolkónski’s simplicity.
“We were talking to him about you a few days ago,” Kochubéy continued, “and about your freed plowmen.”
“Oh, is it you, Prince, who have freed your serfs?” said an