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By Root 4077 0

and courted him, first, because he had the reputation of being intelligent and well-read, and second, because by granting freedom to his peasants, he had already earned himself a reputation as a liberal. The party of the disgruntled old men turned to him directly for sympathy, as his father’s son, condemning the reforms. Feminine society, the world, welcomed him cordially because he was an eligible young man, rich and well-born, and almost a new personage, with the aura of the romantic story of his alleged death and his wife’s tragic end. Besides that, the general opinion of him among all who had known him before was that he had changed greatly for the better in those five years, had softened and matured, and there was none of the former affectation, pride, and mockery in him, but there was that serenity which comes with age. People talked about him, were interested in him, and everyone wished to see him.

The day after his visit to Count Arakcheev, Prince Andrei went to a soirée at Count Kochubey’s. He told the count about his meeting with “Sila Andreich” (as Kochubey called Arakcheev, with that vague mockery of something which Prince Andrei had noticed in the minister of war’s anteroom).

“Mon cher,” said Kochubey, “even in this matter you cannot avoid Mikhail Mikhailovich. C’est le grand faiseur.*337 I’ll tell him. He promised to come this evening…”

“What concern does Speransky have with military regulations?” asked Prince Andrei.

Kochubey smiled and shook his head, as if surprised at Bolkonsky’s naïveté.

“He and I were talking about you the other day,” Kochubey went on, “about your free plowmen…”

“Ah, so it’s you, Prince, who freed your muzhiks?” asked an old man of Catherine’s time, glancing scornfully at Bolkonsky.

“It’s a small estate that brought no income,” replied Bolkonsky, so as not to vex the old man for nothing, and trying to soften his act before him.

“Vous craignez d’être en retard,”*338 said the old man, looking at Kochubey.

“One thing I don’t understand,” the old man went on. “Who’s going to work the land if they’re freed? Writing laws is easy, but governing is difficult. It’s the same thing I ask you now, Count: who will be the heads of departments if everybody has to take examinations?”

“Those who pass them, I suppose,” Kochubey replied, crossing his legs and looking around.

“Here I’ve got Pryanichnikov serving under me, a nice man, good as gold, but he’s sixty—is he going to take examinations?…”

“Yes, that makes it difficult, since education is not very widespread, but…” Count Kochubey did not finish, stood up, and, taking Prince Andrei by the arm, went to meet a tall, balding, fair-haired man of about forty, with a large, open forehead and an elongated face of an unusual, strange whiteness. The entering man was wearing a dark blue tailcoat, a cross on his neck, and a star on the left side of his chest. It was Speransky. Prince Andrei recognized him at once, and something in his soul shook, as happens at important moments of life. Whether it was respect, envy, or expectation—he did not know. Speransky’s entire figure was of a special type, by which he could be recognized at once. In no one of the society in which Prince Andrei lived had he seen this calm and self-assurance of clumsy and obtuse movements, in no one had he seen such a firm and at the same time soft gaze of half-closed and slightly moist eyes, such firmness of a totally meaningless smile, such a thin, smooth, soft voice, and, above all, such a tender whiteness of the face and especially of the hands, somewhat broad, but extraordinarily plump, tender, and white. Such whiteness and tenderness of face Prince Andrei had seen only in soldiers who had spent a long time in the hospital. This was Speransky, secretary of state, counselor to the sovereign, and his companion at Erfurt, where he had seen and spoken with Napoleon more than once.

Speransky did not shift his eyes from one face to another, as one does involuntarily when entering a large company, and he was in no hurry to speak. He spoke softly, with assurance that he would be