It was night and Tolstoi was alone in his apartments at the Three Kings Hotel, sitting with a candle at his writing-table.
Having finished his letter to the Tsar, and made a copy of the Tsarevitch’s letter, he took the sealing wax to seal them up in the same envelope. But he put it down again, then read once more the original of the Tsarevitch’s letter, sighed deeply, joyfully, opened his golden snuff-box, took a pinch, and rubbing the snuff between his finger and thumb, with a quiet smile fell into a reverie.
He could scarcely trust his luck; only this morning he was in the depths of despair, so that on receiving a note from the Tsarevitch: “I wish urgently to speak with you—something to your interest,” he did not want to go, thinking it only meant more talking to while away the time.
And suddenly, the “cursed stubbornness” had disappeared; he had agreed to everything; in very truth a miracle, due to none save God and St. Nicholas. It was not in vain that Tolstoi had always specially honoured St. Nicholas, and trusted to the holy protection of the wonder worker. He was glad to accompany the Tsarevitch to Bari. The holy man well deserved a candle! It is true that besides St. Nicholas, Venus also had her part, Venus whom he so fervently worshipped had not abandoned him—rather helped him. To-day, when saying good-bye he had kissed the woman’s hand—only the hand—why, he had felt equal to falling down before her on his knees and worshipping her, like Venus herself. A clever lass! How she tricked the Tsarevitch? For after all, he was not so great a fool as not to realize what was before him. That’s just the trouble, he is too clever. “It is a general rule,” Tolstoi was in the habit of saying, “that clever people are easily cheated, because while they have a lot of extraordinary knowledge, they have but slight acquaintance with everyday concerns. To fathom the mind and nature of man requires great knowledge; it is more difficult to know people than to remember a number of books.”
With what reckless ease, with what a cheerful face, did the Tsarevitch inform him to-day that he was returning to his father. He seemed either drunk or dreaming; the whole time he was laughing with a strange pathetic laugh.
“Poor man! poor man!” Tolstoi shook his head in distress and having snuffed, he wiped a tear which had come into his eye; whether owing to the snuff, or his pity for the Tsarevitch is doubtful. “Like a sheep which is dumb, he is brought to the slaughter.”
Tolstoi had a kind, almost sentimental heart.
“Yes, it seems a great pity, yet it could not be helped,” he hastened to console himself. “The eel lives in the sea to prevent the carp from sleeping. Friendship is friendship, duty is duty.”
He, Tolstoi, had, after all, succeeded in rendering a service to the Tsar, to the Fatherland; he had kept up his dignity, had proved himself a worthy disciple of Niccolo Machiavelli, and had successfully crowned his career. Now his lucky star will descend on his bosom in the shape of St. Andrew’s decoration, the Tolstoi’s will be Counts, and should they attain celebrity in future generations, reach higher positions, they will remember him. Let now Thy servant depart in peace, O Lord!