l relatives, and, above all, good fortune, Prince, Ivan
Ivanovitch had early made himself a career. As that career progressed,
his ambition had met with a success which left nothing more to be sought
for in that direction. From his earliest youth upward he had prepared
himself to fill the exalted station in the world to which fate actually
called him later; wherefore, although in his prosperous life (as in the
lives of all) there had been failures, misfortunes, and cares, he had
never lost his quietness of character, his elevated tone of thought, or
his peculiarly moral, religious bent of mind. Consequently, though he
had won the universal esteem of his fellows, he had done so less through
his important position than through his perseverance and integrity.
While not of specially distinguished intellect, the eminence of his
station (whence he could afford to look down upon all petty questions)
had caused him to adopt high points of view. Though in reality he was
kind and sympathetic, in manner he appeared cold and haughty--probably
for the reason that he had forever to be on his guard against the
endless claims and petitions of people who wished to profit through
his influence. Yet even then his coldness was mitigated by the polite
condescension of a man well accustomed to move in the highest circles
of society. Well-educated, his culture was that of a youth of the end of
the last century. He had read everything, whether philosophy or belles
lettres, which that age had produced in France, and loved to quote from
Racine, Corneille, Boileau, Moliere, Montaigne, and Fenelon. Likewise he
had gleaned much history from Segur, and much of the old classics from
French translations of them; but for mathematics, natural philosophy, or
contemporary literature he cared nothing whatever. However, he knew how
to be silent in conversation, as well as when to make general remarks
on authors whom he had never read--such as Goethe, Schiller, and Byron.
Moreover, despite his exclusively French education, he was simple in
speech and hated originality (which he called the mark of an untutored
nature). Wherever he lived, society was a necessity to him, and, both in
Moscow and the country he had his reception days, on which practically
"all the town" called upon him. An introduction from him was a passport
to every drawing-room; few young and pretty ladies in society objected
to offering him their rosy cheeks for a paternal salute; and people eve