“Aliósha, quiet, quiet, my boy, quiet!”
The father was stroking his son’s hair, kissing his forehead and eyes with the tenderness of a loving mother.
Meanwhile Tolstoi witnessing this tenderness, said to himself, “The hawk will kiss the chicken till the last feather has gone.”
The Tsar made a sign and he disappeared.
Peter took his son into the dining-room. The dog Lisette growled at first, but, recognizing the Tsarevitch, wagged her tail in confusion and licked his hand. The table was set for two; an orderly brought in the dishes together and left the room. They remained alone. Peter poured out two glasses of anisette cordial.
“Your health, Aliósha!”
They clinked glasses. The hand of the Tsarevitch trembled so violently that he upset half his liquor.
Peter had prepared “zakouska,” a favourite dish of his, a slice of black bread with butter, spread with minced onion and garlic; he halved the piece, one part for himself, one for his son.
“You have grown thin abroad,” he said, looking at his son, “wait a bit, we’ll soon fill you out. Russian bread is better feeding than the German.”
He pressed him to eat and drink with many a jocular saying.