library_books Bookstacks

Volume I, Part One, Chapter VII

Prince Vasíli kept the promise he had given at Anna Pávlovna's evening party to Princess Drubetskáya, who had asked him on behalf of her only son, Borís. The Emperor was spoken to about him, and, making an exception to the rule, he was transferred to the Semënovsky Guards regiment as an ensign. But Borís was never appointed an aide-de-camp or attached to Kutúzov, despite all the efforts and intrigues of Anna Mikháylovna. Soon after Anna Pávlovna's evening party, Anna Mikháylovna returned to Moscow, going straight to her rich relations, the Rostóvs, with whom she stayed in Moscow and where her adored Borénka, who had just been promoted to ensign in the army and immediately transferred to the Guards, had been brought up from childhood and lived for years. The Guards had already left Petersburg on the 10th of August, and the son, who had remained in Moscow for his equipment, was to overtake them on the road to Radzivílov.

It was the name-day of the two Natályas, the mother and the younger daughter of the Rostóvs. From morning till night, carriages with teams of horses kept driving up and driving away, bringing visitors to congratulate the countess to her large, well-known house on the Povarskáya. The countess, with her beautiful eldest daughter and the guests, who did not cease to succeed one another, sat in the drawing room.

The countess was a woman with an Oriental type of thin face, about forty-five years old, evidently exhausted by childbearing; she had had twelve children. The slowness of her movements and speech, proceeding from weakness, gave her a dignified air which inspired respect. Princess Anna Mikháylovna Drubetskáya, as an intimate friend of the house, sat there too, helping to receive the guests and keep up the conversation. The young people were in the back rooms, not finding it necessary to take part in receiving visits. The count met the guests and saw them out, inviting everyone to dinner.

— I am very, very grateful to you, ma chère or mon cher — (he said ma chère or mon cher to everyone without exception, without the slightest shades of difference, to those above him as well as to those below him) — on my own behalf and on behalf of the dear name-day girls. Mind now, you must come to dinner. You will offend me, mon cher. I entreat you cordially on behalf of the whole family, ma chère. — These words, with the same expression on his full, cheerful, and clean-shaven face, and with the same firm handshake and repeated short bows, he spoke to everyone without exception or alteration. Having seen a guest out, the count returned to the one or those who were still in the drawing room; drawing up an armchair, with the air of a man who likes and knows how to live, legs spread wide and hands on his knees, he swayed significantly, offered guesses about the weather, gave advice about health, sometimes in Russian, sometimes in very bad but self-confident French, and again, with the air of a man tired but firm in the fulfillment of his duty, went to see out, smoothed his sparse gray hair over his bald spot, and again invited to dinner. Sometimes, returning from the anteroom, he passed through the conservatory and the pantry into the large marble hall, where the table was being laid for eighty covers, and looking at the footmen, who were carrying silver and china, setting out the tables, and unfolding damask tablecloths, he called to Dmítry Vasílyevich, a nobleman who managed all his affairs, and said:

— Well, well, Mítenka, see that everything is right. That's it, that's it, — he said, looking with pleasure at the huge extended table. — The main thing is the serving. That's it... — And he went away, sighing complacently, back to the drawing room.

— Márya Lvóvna Karágina and her daughter! — the countess's huge footman announced in a bass voice, entering the drawing-room door. The countess thought a moment and took a pinch from a gold snuffbox with her husband's portrait.

— I am tormented by these visits, — she said. — Well, I will receive her, and that will be the last. She is very prim. Ask her in, — she said to the footman in a sad voice, as if saying: "Well, finish me off!"

A tall, stout lady with a proud air, accompanied by her round-faced, smiling daughter, entered the drawing room, rustling their dresses.

— Chère comtesse, il y a si longtemps... elle a été alitée la pauvre enfant... au bal des Razoumowsky... et la comtesse Apraksine... j'ai été si heureuse... — lively women's voices were heard, interrupting one another and blending with the rustle of dresses and the moving of chairs. That conversation began which is kept up just long enough to enable one at the first pause to rise, rustle one's dresses, say: Je suis bien charmée; la santé de maman... et la comtesse Apraksine, and again, rustling one's dresses, to pass into the anteroom, put on a fur coat or cloak, and drive away. The conversation turned to the chief town news of the time — the illness of the famous rich man and handsome man of Catherine's time, the old Count Bezúkhov, and his illegitimate son Pierre, who had behaved so improperly at Anna Pávlovna Schérer's evening party.

— I am very sorry for the poor count, — said the visitor, — his health is bad enough as it is, and now this grief from his son will kill him!

— What is it? — asked the countess, as if she did not know what the visitor was talking about, though she had already heard the cause of Count Bezúkhov's grief fifteen times.

— That is modern education! Even abroad, — said the visitor, — this young man was left to himself, and now in Petersburg, they say, he has done such terrible things that he has been expelled from there by the police.

— You don't say! — said the countess.

— He chose his acquaintances badly, — Princess Anna Mikháylovna intervened. — The son of Prince Vasíli, he, and a certain Dólokhov, they say, did God knows what. And both suffered. Dólokhov has been degraded to the ranks, and Bezúkhov's son has been sent to Moscow. As for Anatole Kurágin, his father somehow hushed it up. But he was expelled from Petersburg anyway.

— But what exactly did they do? — asked the countess.

— They are perfect brigands, especially Dólokhov, — the visitor was saying. — He is the son of Márya Ivánovna Dólokhova, such a respectable lady, and what do you think? Can you imagine: the three of them got a bear somewhere, put it in the carriage with them, and took it to the actresses'. The police ran up to calm them down. They caught the police officer and tied him back to back to the bear, and let the bear into the Moýka; the bear swims, and the police officer is on it.

— A fine figure, ma chère, the police officer must have cut, — cried the count, dying of laughter.

— Oh, what horror! What is there to laugh at, count?

But the ladies could not help laughing themselves.

— They barely saved the unfortunate man, — continued the visitor. — And this is how the son of Count Kiríll Vladímirovich Bezúkhov so cleverly amuses himself! — she added. — And they said he was so well-educated and intelligent. This is what all this foreign education has led to. I hope no one will receive him here, despite his wealth. They wanted to introduce him to me. I flatly refused: I have daughters.

— Why do you say this young man is so rich? — asked the countess, leaning away from the girls, who immediately pretended not to be listening. — After all, he only has illegitimate children. It seems... Pierre too is illegitimate.

The visitor waved her hand.

— He has twenty illegitimate ones, I think.

Princess Anna Mikháylovna joined in the conversation, evidently wishing to show her connections and her knowledge of all worldly circumstances.

— The thing is this, — she said significantly and also in a half-whisper. — Count Kiríll Vladímirovich's reputation is known... He has lost count of his own children, but this Pierre was a favorite.

— How handsome the old man was, — said the countess, — even last year! I have never seen a handsomer man.

— He has changed very much now, — said Anna Mikháylovna. — So I was going to say, — she continued, — by his wife the direct heir to all the estate is Prince Vasíli, but the father loved Pierre very much, occupied himself with his education, and wrote to the Emperor... so that no one knows, if he dies (he is so bad that this is expected any minute, and Lorrain has arrived from Petersburg), who will get this huge fortune, Pierre or Prince Vasíli. Forty thousand serfs and millions. I know this very well, because Prince Vasíli himself told me so. And besides, Kiríll Vladímirovich is my second cousin once removed on my mother's side. He also stood godfather to Bórya, — she added, as if attributing no importance to this circumstance.

— Prince Vasíli arrived in Moscow yesterday. He is going on a tour of inspection, I was told, — said the visitor.

— Yes, but, entre nous, — said the princess, — that is a pretext; he came actually for Count Kiríll Vladímirovich, having learned that he is so bad.

— Still, ma chère, it's a splendid trick, — said the count, and noticing that the elder visitor was not listening to him, he turned to the young ladies. — The police officer must have cut a fine figure, I imagine.

And imagining how the police officer waved his arms, he again roared with a resonant, bass laugh that shook his whole stout body, as people laugh who have always eaten well and especially drunk well. — So please come to dinner with us, — he said.