الفصل الفصل 147 · 第147章

At the beginning of winter Prince Nicholas Bolkónski and his daughter

moved to Moscow. At that time enthusiasm for the Emperor Alexander’s

regime had weakened and a patriotic and anti-French tendency prevailed

there, and this, together with his past and his intellect and his

originality, at once made Prince Nicholas Bolkónski an object of

particular respect to the Moscovites and the center of the Moscow

opposition to the government.

The prince had aged very much that year. He showed marked signs of

senility by a tendency to fall asleep, forgetfulness of quite recent

events, remembrance of remote ones, and the childish vanity with which

he accepted the role of head of the Moscow opposition. In spite of this

the old man inspired in all his visitors alike a feeling of respectful

veneration—especially of an evening when he came in to tea in his

old-fashioned coat and powdered wig and, aroused by anyone, told his

abrupt stories of the past, or uttered yet more abrupt and scathing

criticisms of the present. For them all, that old-fashioned house with

its gigantic mirrors, pre-Revolution furniture, powdered footmen, and

the stern shrewd old man (himself a relic of the past century) with his

gentle daughter and the pretty Frenchwoman who were reverently devoted

to him presented a majestic and agreeable spectacle. But the visitors

did not reflect that besides the couple of hours during which they saw

their host, there were also twenty-two hours in the day during which the

private and intimate life of the house continued.

Latterly that private life had become very trying for Princess Mary.

There in Moscow she was deprived of her greatest pleasures—talks with

the pilgrims and the solitude which refreshed her at Bald Hills—and

she had none of the advantages and pleasures of city life. She did not

go out into society; everyone knew that her father would not let her

go anywhere without him, and his failing health prevented his going out

himself, so that she was not invited to dinners and evening parties. She

had quite abandoned the hope of getting married. She saw the coldness

and malevolence with which the old prince received and dismissed the

young men, possible suitors, who sometimes appeared at their house. She

had no friends: during this visit to Moscow she had been disappointed in

the two who had been nearest to her. Mademoiselle Bourienne, with whom

she had never been able to be quite frank, had now become unpleasant to

her, and for various reasons Princess Mary avoided her. Julie, with whom

she had corresponded for the last five years, was in Moscow, but proved

to be quite alien to her when they met. Just then Julie, who by the

death of her brothers had become one of the richest heiresses in Moscow,

was in the full whirl of society pleasures. She was surrounded by young

men who, she fancied, had suddenly learned to appreciate her worth.

Julie was at that stage in the life of a society woman when she feels

that her last chance of marrying has come and that her fate must be

decided now or never. On Thursdays Princess Mary remembered with a

mournful smile that she now had no one to write to, since Julie—whose

presence gave her no pleasure was here and they met every week. Like the

old émigré who declined to marry the lady with whom he had spent his

evenings for years, she regretted Julie’s presence and having no one

to write to. In Moscow Princess Mary had no one to talk to, no one to

whom to confide her sorrow, and much sorrow fell to her lot just then.

The time for Prince Andrew’s return and marriage was approaching, but

his request to her to prepare his father for it had not been carried

out; in fact, it seemed as if matters were quite hopeless, for at every

mention of the young Countess Rostóva the old prince (who apart from

that was usually in a bad temper) lost control of himself. Another

lately added sorrow arose from the lessons she gave her six year-old

nephew. To her consternation she detected in herself in relation to

little Nicholas some symptoms of her father’s irritability. However

often she told herself that she must not get irritable when teaching her

nephew, almost every time that, pointer in hand, she sat down to show

him the French alphabet, she so longed to pour her own knowledge quickly

and easily into the child—who was already afraid that Auntie might at

any moment get angry—that at his slightest inattention she trembled,

became flustered and heated, raised her voice, and sometimes pulled him

by the arm and put him in the corner. Having put him in the corner

she would herself begin to cry over her cruel, evil nature, and little

Nicholas, following her example, would sob, and without permission would

leave his corner, come to her, pull her wet hands from her face, and

comfort her. But what distressed the princess most of all was her

father’s irritability, which was always directed against her and had

of late amounted to cruelty. Had he forced her to prostrate herself to

the ground all night, had he beaten her or made her fetch wood or water,

it would never have entered her mind to think her position hard; but

this loving despot—the more cruel because he loved her and for that

reason tormented himself and her—knew how not merely to hurt and

humiliate her deliberately, but to show her that she was always to blame

for everything. Of late he had exhibited a new trait that tormented

Princess Mary more than anything else; this was his ever-increasing

intimacy with Mademoiselle Bourienne. The idea that at the first moment

of receiving the news of his son’s intentions had occurred to him in

jest—that if Andrew got married he himself would marry Bourienne—had

evidently pleased him, and latterly he had persistently, and as it

seemed to Princess Mary merely to offend her, shown special endearments

to the companion and expressed his dissatisfaction with his daughter by

demonstrations of love of Bourienne.

One day in Moscow in Princess Mary’s presence (she thought her father

did it purposely when she was there) the old prince kissed Mademoiselle

Bourienne’s hand and, drawing her to him, embraced her affectionately.

Princess Mary flushed and ran out of the room. A few minutes later

Mademoiselle Bourienne came into Princess Mary’s room smiling and

making cheerful remarks in her agreeable voice. Princess Mary hastily

wiped away her tears, went resolutely up to Mademoiselle Bourienne,

and evidently unconscious of what she was doing began shouting in angry

haste at the Frenchwoman, her voice breaking: “It’s horrible, vile,

inhuman, to take advantage of the weakness...” She did not finish.

“Leave my room,” she exclaimed, and burst into sobs.

Next day the prince did not say a word to his daughter, but she noticed

that at dinner he gave orders that Mademoiselle Bourienne should be

served first. After dinner, when the footman handed coffee and from

habit began with the princess, the prince suddenly grew furious,

threw his stick at Philip, and instantly gave instructions to have him

conscripted for the army.

“He doesn’t obey... I said it twice... and he doesn’t obey! She

is the first person in this house; she’s my best friend,” cried

the prince. “And if you allow yourself,” he screamed in a fury,

addressing Princess Mary for the first time, “to forget yourself again

before her as you dared to do yesterday, I will show you who is master

in this house. Go! Don’t let me set eyes on you; beg her pardon!”

Princess Mary asked Mademoiselle Bourienne’s pardon, and also her

father’s pardon for herself and for Philip the footman, who had begged

for her intervention.

At such moments something like a pride of sacrifice gathered in her

soul. And suddenly that father whom she had judged would look for his

spectacles in her presence, fumbling near them and not seeing them, or

would forget something that had just occurred, or take a false step with

his failing legs and turn to see if anyone had noticed his feebleness,

or, worst of all, at dinner when there were no visitors to excite him

would suddenly fall asleep, letting his napkin drop and his shaking

head sink over his plate. “He is old and feeble, and I dare to condemn

him!” she thought at such moments, with a feeling of revulsion against

herself.