d designated him as her heir (had it not been
for that, his father would not have let him go); she dressed him like a
doll, hired every sort of teacher for him, provided him with a governor,
a Frenchman, a former abbe, a disciple of Jean-Jacques Rousseau, a
certain M. Courtin de Vaucelles, an adroit and subtle intriguer,--the
most _fine fleur_ of the emigration, as she expressed it,--and ended by
marrying this "fine-fleur" when she was almost seventy years of age; she
transferred to his name her entire fortune, and soon afterward, rouged,
scented with amber, _a la Richelieu_, surrounded by small negroes,
slender-legged dogs, and screeching parrots, she died on a crooked little
couch of the time of Louis XV, with an enamelled snuff-box, the work of
Petitot, in her hands,--and died, deserted by her husband: the sneaking
M. Courtin had preferred to retire to Paris with her money.

Ivan was only in his twentieth year when this blow (we are speaking of
the Princess's marriage, not of her death) descended upon him; he did not
wish to remain in his aunt's house, where from a wealthy heir he had
suddenly been converted into a parasite; in Petersburg, the society in
which he had been reared, was closed to him; to service, beginning with
the lowest ranks, difficult and dark, he felt repugnance (all this took
place at the very beginning of the reign of the Emperor Alexander). He
was compelled, perforce, to return to the country, to his father. Dirty,
poor, tattered did his native nest appear to him: the dulness and soot of
existence on the steppes offended him at every step; he was tormented
with boredom; on the other hand, every one in the house, with the
exception of his mother, looked upon him with unfriendly eyes. His father
did not like his habits of the capital; his dress-suits, frilled shirts,
books, his flute, his cleanliness, in which, not without reason, they
scented his fastidiousness; he was constantly complaining and grumbling
at his son.--"Nothing here suits him," he was wont to say: "at table he
is dainty, he does not eat, he cannot endure the odour of the servants,
the stifling atmosphere; the sight of drunken men disturbs him, and you
mustn't dare to fight in his presence, either; he will not enter
government service: he's frail in health, forsooth; phew, what an
effeminate creature! And all because Voltaire sticks in his head!"

The old man cherished a particular dislike for Voltaire, and for the
"fanatic" Didero