Peter, as though nothing had happened, turned to James Bruce and began to talk with him about astronomy, Newton’s system, the spots on the sun which can be looked at through a telescope, if the glass next to the eye be smoked, and the forthcoming solar eclipse. He was so engrossed in this conversation that he noticed nothing else to the very end of the meal. Before leaving the table he pulled out his diary and noted down:
“Mem:—To inform the people about the forthcoming solar eclipses in order to prevent them being regarded as miraculous; since that which is foretold ceases to be a miracle. Nobody should be allowed to invent and spread false rumours about supposed miracles, which serves no purpose except to upset people.”
All breathed more freely when Peter rose from the table and went into the next room.
He sat down in an arm-chair close to the fire, put on his round, iron-rimmed spectacles, lit his pipe, and began to look through the new Dutch papers, marking on the margin what was to be translated for the Russian newspapers.
Then he made another note in his diary:
“Publish everything in full: both good and bad news; nothing should be concealed.”
A pale sunbeam escaped from behind the clouds; it was timid, feeble, like the smile of a dying man. A luminous square spread from the window across the floor to the fireplace; the red flame paled, and grew transparent. Outside the branches stood sharply outlined against the clear silvery sky. An orange-tree grown in a barrel, which was generally carried from one hothouse to another, being delicate and sensitive to cold, rejoiced to see the sun, and its fruit glowed among the dark clipped foliage like golden balls. Amid the dark tree stems gleamed white marble gods and goddesses, the few which had not yet been hidden in their coffins; they too, naked and chilled, seemed to hasten to warm themselves in the sun.
Two little girls came running into the room; the nine-year old Anne, with black eyes, white skin and rosy cheeks, quiet, grave, fat and rather heavy, “a little barrel,” as Peter was wont to call her. The younger one, Lisa, aged seven, with golden curls, blue eyes, sprightly as a bird, noisy, mischievous, slack at her lessons, and caring for only games, dancing and songs, was very pretty and already quite a little flirt.
“Aha! you rascals!” exclaimed Peter, and laying aside the newspapers, he put out his hands towards them with a loving smile. He embraced and kissed them, and lifted them one on to each knee.
Lisa pulled off his spectacles: she did not like them because they made him look older—quite a grandfather to them. Then she began whispering into his ear, confiding to him her long-cherished wish:—