'We may as well go,' the son said in French.
'My dear, please,' pleaded his mother, touching her son's hand again, as though the contact might either pacify him or rouse him. Boris made no response, other than looking quizzically at his mother, and he didn't take off his overcoat.
'My good man,' said Anna Mikhaylovna to the porter in her sweetest tone, 'I know Count Kirill is very ill . . . that's why I'm here . . . I'm a relative . . . I shall not disturb him, my good man . . . I need only see Prince Vasily Kuragin, and I know he's staying here. Be so good as to announce us.'
The porter scowled, pulled a cord that rang upstairs and turned away.
'Princess Drubetskoy to see Prince Vasily Kuragin,' he called to a footman in knee-breeches, slippers and a swallowtail coat, who had run across the landing and was looking down.
The mother straightened the folds of her dyed silk gown, checked herself in the full-length Venetian mirror on the wall and then walked jauntily up the carpeted staircase in her shabby shoes.
'You did promise, my dear,' she said, turning again to her son and urging him on with a touch on the arm. Eyes down, the son walked on quietly behind her.
They entered a huge room, from which a door led to the apartments assigned to Prince Vasily.
Just as mother and son reached the middle of the room and were about to ask directions from an old footman who had jumped up when they came in, a bronze handle of one of the doors turned, and out came Prince Vasily, dressed in a velvet house jacket with a star on the breast, accompanied by a handsome man with black hair. This was the celebrated Petersburg physician Dr Lorrain.
'It is positive, then?' the prince was saying.
'Prince, errare humanum est,'23 answered the doctor, lisping the Latin words in a French accent.
'Very well, very well . . .'
When he saw Anna Mikhaylovna and her son, Prince Vasily dismissed the doctor with a bow, and came over to meet them, in silence and with a questioning look. The son watched as his mother's eyes switched on an expression of profound sadness, and he gave a slight smile.
'Yes, we meet again, Prince, but in what sad circumstances . . . And how is our dear invalid?' she said, seeming not to notice the frigid, offensive glance that was levelled at her. Nonplussed, Prince Vasily stared at her, then at Boris, with a look of inquiry. Boris bowed politely. Prince Vasily ignored his bow, turned to Anna Mikhaylovna and responded to her question by shaking his head and pursing his lips, all of which suggested little hope for the patient.
'Can it be true?' cried Anna Mikhaylovna 'Oh, this is terrible! It doesn't bear thinking about . . . This is my son,' she added, indicating Boris. 'He wanted to thank you in person.'
Boris made another polite bow.
'Believe me, Prince, a mother's heart will never forget what you have done for us.'
'I am pleased to have been of service, my dear Anna Mikhaylovna,' said Prince Vasily, straightening the frill on his shirt, and exuding in voice and manner here in Moscow (for the benefit of Anna Mikhaylovna, who was under an obligation to him) even more gravitas than at Anna Pavlovna's soiree in St Petersburg.
'Try to do your duty and be a worthy soldier,' he added, turning severely to him. 'I'm so pleased . . . Are you here on leave?' he asked in his offhand way.
'I am awaiting orders, your Excellency, to embark upon my new assignment,' answered Boris, with no sign of resentment at the prince's abrasive tone, nor any desire to get into conversation, but he spoke with such calmness and courtesy that the prince gave him a close look.
'I suppose you're living with your mother?'
'I'm living at Countess Rostov's,' said Boris, not forgetting to add 'your Excellency'.
'That's Ilya Rostov, who married Natalya Shinshin,' said Anna Mikhaylovna.
'Yes, I'm well aware of that,' said Prince Vasily in his dull monotone. 'I've never been able to understand how Natalie Shinshin came to marry that half-licked cub. A completely stupid and ridiculous person. And a gambler, so they say.'
'But a very kind man, Prince,' observed Anna Mikhaylovna, with a persuasive smile, as though she knew full well that Count Rostov deserved these strictures, but begged him not to be too hard on the poor old man.
'What do the doctors say?' asked the princess, after a brief pause, and the expression of profound sadness reappeared on her careworn face.
'There is little hope,' said the prince.
'And I did so want to thank our uncle once more for all his many kindnesses to me and to Boris. He is his godson,' she added rather as if this news ought to please Prince Vasily beyond measure.
Prince Vasily thought for a moment and frowned. Anna Mikhaylovna saw he was afraid she might have a rival claim on Count Bezukhov's will, so she hastened to put his mind at ease. 'If it were not for my genuine love and devotion for Uncle . . .' she said, uttering the last word casually and yet with some emphasis, 'I know what he's like, so generous and upright, but with only the princesses about him . . . They are so young . . .' She bent forward and added in a whisper: 'Has he performed his last duty,24 Prince? Those last moments, they are priceless! Things couldn't be worse, it seems. It is absolutely necessary to prepare him, if he is as bad as all that. We women, Prince,' she smiled tenderly, 'always know how to say these things. I really must see him, however painful it may be. But then, I am used to suffering.'
It seemed to dawn on the prince, as it had done at Anna Pavlovna's, that Anna Mikhaylovna was extremely difficult to get rid of.
'Do you not think that such a meeting might be too much for him, my dear Anna Mikhaylovna?' he asked. 'Let's wait till tonight. The doctors think the crisis is due.'
'There can be no question of waiting, Prince, at a time like this. Don't forget, it is a matter of saving his soul. Ah! One's Christian duty is a terrible thing.'
A door from the inner rooms opened, and one of the princesses, the count's niece, entered with a cold and sorrowful face. Her elongated body was strikingly wrong for her short legs.
Prince Vasily turned to her. 'Well, how is he?'
'Still the same. What do you expect with all this noise?' said the princess, inspecting Anna Mikhaylovna, who was not known to her.
'Oh, I didn't recognize you, my dear,' said Anna Mikhaylovna, beaming at her, and she strolled over to the count's niece. 'I've just arrived, and I am at your service to help with the nursing of my uncle. I know what you must have gone through,' she added sympathetically, rolling her eyes.
The princess made no reply, didn't even smile, but walked straight off. Anna Mikhaylovna removed her gloves, and, having won this ground, she ensconced herself in an armchair and invited Prince Vasily to sit down beside her.
'Boris!' she said to her son, and she smiled at him. 'I'm going in to see my uncle, the count. You must go and see Pierre, my dear - oh, and don't forget to give him the Rostovs' invitation. They want him to come to dinner. I don't suppose he'll go?' she said to the prince.
'On the contrary,' said the prince, visibly disconcerted. 'I'd be very pleased if you would take that young man off my hands . . . He won't go out anywhere. The count hasn't once asked for him.'
He shrugged. A footman conducted the young man down one staircase and up another to Pierre's apartment.
CHAPTER 13
Pierre had not managed to decide on a career in Petersburg, and had indeed been banished to Moscow for disorderly conduct. The story told about him at Count Rostov's had been true; he had helped to tie the police officer to the bear. He had arrived in Moscow a few days before and was staying, as always, in his father's house. Though he had assumed the story would already be known in Moscow, and the ladies surrounding his father, all of them against him, would take advantage of his visit to make trouble for him with the count, on the day of his arrival he went over to his father's part of the house. He walked into the drawing-room, the princesses' favourite domain, and greeted the ladies, two of whom were doing embroidery, while one read aloud from a book. The eldest, a neat and prim maiden-lady with a long
waist - the one who had come out to see Anna Mikhaylovna - was doing the reading. Both of the younger girls were rosy-cheeked and pretty; the only difference between them was that one had a little mole just above her lip which made her look lovelier still. They were both working at their embroidery frames. Pierre was received like a corpse or a plague-victim. The eldest princess stopped reading and stared at him in silence, with a look of alarm. The younger one without the mole assumed precisely the same attitude. The youngest, the one with the mole, who had a delightful sense of humour, bent over her frame to hide her smile, evidently anticipating a very amusing scene. Scarcely able to suppress her laughter, she pulled the wool down and bent over as though the pattern needed sorting out.
'Good morning, cousin,' said Pierre. 'Don't you recognize me?'
'Oh yes, I do, only too well.'
'How is the count? Can I see him?' Pierre asked, awkwardly as always but without any embarrassment.
'The count is suffering both physically and mentally, and you seem to have done your best to add to his mental suffering.'
'Please can I see him?' repeated Pierre.
'Well . . . if you want to kill him, kill him outright, then you can. Olga, do go and see if Uncle's beef-tea is ready. It will soon be time for it,' she added, to demonstrate for Pierre's benefit that they were busy people, busy tending to his father, whereas he seemed to be busy upsetting him.
Olga went out. Pierre stood there for a moment looking at the sisters, then he bowed and said, 'I shall go to my room, then. When I can see him, please tell me.' He went out and behind him he clearly heard the sister with the mole laughing softly.
The next day Prince Vasily had arrived and taken up residence in the count's house. He sent for Pierre and said to him, 'My dear fellow, if you behave here as you did in Petersburg you'll come to a bad end. That's all I have to say to you. The count is very, very ill. You must not go to see him.'
Since then Pierre had not been disturbed by any of them, and he had spent the whole day alone up in his room.
When Boris walked in to see him, Pierre was stalking around his room, stopping now and then at the corners to make menacing gestures at the wall, as though stabbing some invisible enemy with a sword, then he would glower over his spectacles and stride up and down again, mumbling, shrugging and gesticulating.
'England is done for!' he announced, scowling and pointing as if there was someone there. 'Mr Pitt25 has betrayed the nation and the rights of man, and is therefore condemned to . . .' He never quite managed to pronounce sentence on Pitt - at that moment he was Napoleon, in whose heroic person he had survived a perilous crossing of the Channel and conquered London - because there before him, entering the room, he saw a handsome young officer of solid proportions. Boris halted. Pierre had last seen him as a boy of fourteen, and hadn't the slightest recollection of him. Nevertheless he took him by the arm with his usual ready warm-heartedness, and beamed at him.
'Do you remember who I am?' asked Boris quietly with a pleasant smile. 'I've come with my mother to see the count, but it seems he's not very well.'
'No, he does seem to be quite poorly. People are always bothering him,' answered Pierre, trying to think who this young man could be.
Boris could see that Pierre didn't recognize him, but felt it wasn't for him to make himself known, so he looked him straight in the face, unperturbed.
'Count Rostov wants to invite you to dinner this evening,' he said, after rather a long silence, an awkward one for Pierre.
'Ah, Count Rostov,' began Pierre, delighted. 'You must be his son Ilya. You won't believe it, but I didn't recognize you for a minute. Do you remember how we used to drive out to the Sparrow Hills with Madame Jacquot . . . all those years ago?'
'You are mistaken,' said Boris, deliberately, with a strong and slightly amused smile. 'I'm Boris, the son of Princess Anna Mikhaylovna Drubetskoy. Count Rostov senior is called Ilya. His son is Nikolay. And I don't know anybody called Madame Jacquot.'
Pierre shook his head and waved his hands as if he was being attacked by a swarm of midges or bees.
'Oh dear, what can I be thinking about? I've got it all wrong. I have so many relatives in Moscow! You're Boris . . . yes. All right then, we've got things straight. Tell me, what do you think of the Boulogne expedition? The English are finished, you know, if Napoleon gets across the Channel. I think an invasion is very possible. I just hope that Villeneuve26 doesn't mess things up!'
Boris knew nothing at all about the Boulogne expedition, he didn't read the newspapers and this was the first he had heard of Villeneuve. 'Here in Moscow we are more interested in dinner parties and scandal than politics,' he said calmly and with some amusement. 'I don't know anything about that. I just don't think about it. The main thing in Moscow is the gossip,' he went on. 'And at the moment it's all about you and the count.'
Pierre smiled his warm smile, evidently worried that his companion might say something he would come to regret, but Boris spoke distinctly, clearly and sharply, looking Pierre straight in the eyes. 'There's nothing to do in Moscow but gossip,' he went on. 'Everybody's dying to know who the count will leave his fortune to, though he might well outlive the lot of us, and I sincerely hope he does.'
'Yes, it's awful,' Pierre interposed, 'absolutely awful.' Pierre was still worried that this officer might inadvertently touch on something that could prove embarrassing.
'And it must seem to you,' said Boris, flushing slightly, but not changing his voice or his attitude, 'it must seem to you that everybody's thinking of nothing but getting something from him.'
'That's it exactly,' thought Pierre.
'I'd just like to say - to prevent any misunderstanding - that you're very much mistaken if you include me and my mother with all those people. We're very poor, but I - speaking for myself - even if your father is rich, I don't consider myself a relative of his, and neither I nor my mother would ever ask him for anything, and we wouldn't take anything from him.'
It took Pierre a little time, but at last he understood, and when he did he leapt up from the sofa, reached down and seized Boris by the arm with his usual hastiness and awkwardness, and blushing far more than Boris, began speaking with a mixture of embarrassment and irritation.
'Well, that's strange, isn't it? You don't suppose I . . . I mean, how could anyone think . . . I do know . . .'
But Boris interrupted again. 'I'm glad I've put my cards on the table. Maybe you don't like it. Please forgive me,' he said, trying to put Pierre at his ease instead of being put at his ease by him, 'and I hope I haven't offended you, but I always call a spade a spade. By the way, what shall I tell the Rostovs? You will come to dinner?' And Boris, with a great weight off his mind, having got himself out an awkward situation and put somebody else into one, became perfectly pleasant again.
'No, listen,' said Pierre, regaining his composure, 'you're someone out of the ordinary. What you have just said was good, it was very good. Of course you don't know me, it's ages since we met . . . not since we were children . . . perhaps you expect me to . . . I understand, I quite understand. I wouldn't have done it, I wouldn't have had the strength, but it's splendid. I'm very pleased to have met you. It's funny,' he added, pausing and smiling, 'what you must have expected from me.' He laughed. 'But well. Let's get to know each other better, shall we?' He shook hands with Boris. 'Do you know I haven't seen the count once . . . He hasn't sent for me . . . I'm sorry for him, man to man . . . But what can I do?'
'Anyway, you do think Napoleon will get his army across?' asked Boris with a smile.
Pierre saw that Boris was trying to change the subject, so he launched into an explanation of the Boulogne campaign with all its good points and bad points.
A servant came in to fetch Boris; the princess was ready to leave. Pierre promised to come to dinner to see more of Boris, and gave him a warm handshake, looking affectionately over his spectacles into Boris's face.
When he had gone, Pierre paced the room again for some time, no longer st
abbing at an unseen foe, but smiling at the memory of that pleasant, intelligent and confident young man. As so often happens with very young people, especially if they are leading a solitary existence, he felt a strange warmth towards this young man, and made up his mind to become friends with him.
Prince Vasily went to see the princess out. She was holding a handkerchief to her eyes, and her face was tearful.
'This is dreadful, truly dreadful!' she was saying, 'but never mind the cost, I shall carry out my duty. I'll come for the night. He can't be left like this. Every minute is precious. I can't see what his nieces are waiting for. With God's help I shall find a way to prepare him. Goodbye, Prince, God keep you . . .'
'Goodbye, my kind friend,' answered Prince Vasily, turning away.
'Oh, he's in such a dreadful state!' said the mother to her son, when they were back in the carriage. 'He hardly knows anyone.'
'I don't understand his attitude to Pierre, Mamma.'
'His will is going to clear that up, my dear. And our fate depends upon it too . . .'
'But what makes you think he'll leave us anything?'
'Oh, my dear! He's so rich, and we're so poor.'
'That doesn't seem enough reason, Mamma.'
'Oh dear, oh dear, how poorly he is!' cried his mother.
CHAPTER 14
When Anna Mikhaylovna had driven off with her son to Count Kirill Bezukhov's, Countess Rostov sat there all alone for quite some time, pressing a handkerchief to her eyes. At last she rang the bell.
'What do you think you're doing, girl?' she said testily to the maid, who had kept her waiting a few minutes. 'Don't you want to remain in my service, eh? I can always find you somewhere else to work.'
The countess, grief-stricken by her friend's demeaning poverty, was not feeling herself, and that always made her say 'you girl!' or 'you there!' to the servants.
'I'm sorry, madam,' said the maid.
'Ask the count to come to me.'
The count came waddling in to see his wife, looking very shifty, as always.