Ivan shared the joy of his humble friend. He himself was beginning to learn some lessons which were new and strange to him, and which perhaps the miseries he had witnessed and the sorrows he had experienced had been preparing him to receive. In the circles where he moved now there was no longer any scoffing at religion, but rather a devout and reverent acknowledgment of the hand of God. Most of the nobility were diligent in their attendance upon the church services; but some ladies, and a few men of the highest position, were spoken of in the hearing of Ivan as remarkably pious. Foremost amongst these were the Princess Metchersky and the Countess Tolstoi, Prince Alexander Galitzin, and the Sardinian ambassador De Maistre. No reproach was implied or intended; their piety seemed to be rather considered as a distinction, and it was usually added that they stood high in the imperial favour.
On the last evening of his stay in St. Petersburg, Ivan saw one of his acquaintances—a nephew of the Grand-Marshal Tolstoi, and like himself a member of the Chevalier Guard—sitting apart absorbed in a book. The stirring romance of real life had of late driven all other romances out of the mind of Ivan; but the sight of an interested reader awakened his slumbering tastes. He came to the side of Tolstoi—a gay, good-natured youth, to whom he could say anything he pleased. “Is that a new book which you seem to like so much?” he asked.
“I am ashamed to confess it is new to me, or was so until lately,” returned Tolstoi.
“What is it? A romance? I should think it a kindness if you would lend it to me when you have done with it yourself.”
“Look at it,” said Tolstoi, placing it in his hand.
It was in French, as Ivan expected; but its appearance was different from that of any French book he had ever seen before. Although divided into chapters and verses, it was evidently not poetry, and very sacred names were of frequent occurrence. He turned to the opening page, and exclaimed in surprise, “The New Testament!—how strange!”
“Why should it be strange?” said Tolstoi simply. “What better book could I find to read?”
“What is it all about?” asked Ivan. “Of course I know there are the holy gospels, but this book seems to contain a great deal besides.”
“Oh! I cannot tell you in a moment. Read it for yourself, and you will soon learn to love it well.”
Ivan turned back again to the page with which his friend had been occupied, and which he had kept open with his finger. He read these words: “Love your enemies, bless them that curse you, do good to them that hate you, and pray for them that despitefully use you, and persecute you; that ye may be the children of your Father which is in heaven: for he maketh his sun to rise on the evil and on the good, and sendeth rain on the just and on the unjust.” “That sort of religion would never answer!” he exclaimed indignantly, allowing the book to fall from his hand. “What? Love the French? Do good to them? Pray for them? I think whoever recommended you, just now, the reading of this book, must have gone altogether out of his senses. We should all be ruined if such ideas as these got abroad amongst us, especially at the present moment, when it is our supreme duty to hate the enemies of the Czar and to destroy them.”