Bab Bab 18 · 第18章

Countess Rostóva, with her daughters and a large number of guests, was

already seated in the drawing room. The count took the gentlemen into

his study and showed them his choice collection of Turkish pipes. From

time to time he went out to ask: “Hasn’t she come yet?” They

were expecting Márya Dmítrievna Akhrosímova, known in society as le

terrible dragon, a lady distinguished not for wealth or rank, but for

common sense and frank plainness of speech. Márya Dmítrievna was known

to the Imperial family as well as to all Moscow and Petersburg, and both

cities wondered at her, laughed privately at her rudenesses, and told

good stories about her, while none the less all without exception

respected and feared her.

In the count’s room, which was full of tobacco smoke, they talked

of the war that had been announced in a manifesto, and about the

recruiting. None of them had yet seen the manifesto, but they all knew

it had appeared. The count sat on the sofa between two guests who were

smoking and talking. He neither smoked nor talked, but bending his head

first to one side and then to the other watched the smokers with evident

pleasure and listened to the conversation of his two neighbors, whom he

egged on against each other.

One of them was a sallow, clean-shaven civilian with a thin and wrinkled

face, already growing old, though he was dressed like a most fashionable

young man. He sat with his legs up on the sofa as if quite at home and,

having stuck an amber mouthpiece far into his mouth, was inhaling the

smoke spasmodically and screwing up his eyes. This was an old bachelor,

Shinshín, a cousin of the countess’, a man with “a sharp tongue”

as they said in Moscow society. He seemed to be condescending to

his companion. The latter, a fresh, rosy officer of the Guards,

irreproachably washed, brushed, and buttoned, held his pipe in the

middle of his mouth and with red lips gently inhaled the smoke, letting

it escape from his handsome mouth in rings. This was Lieutenant Berg, an

officer in the Semënov regiment with whom Borís was to travel to join

the army, and about whom Natásha had teased her elder sister Véra,

speaking of Berg as her “intended.” The count sat between them and

listened attentively. His favorite occupation when not playing boston, a

card game he was very fond of, was that of listener, especially when he

succeeded in setting two loquacious talkers at one another.

“Well, then, old chap, mon très honorable Alphonse Kárlovich,”

said Shinshín, laughing ironically and mixing the most ordinary Russian

expressions with the choicest French phrases—which was a peculiarity

of his speech. “Vous comptez vous faire des rentes sur l’état; *

you want to make something out of your company?”

* You expect to make an income out of the government.

“No, Peter Nikoláevich; I only want to show that in the cavalry

the advantages are far less than in the infantry. Just consider my own

position now, Peter Nikoláevich...”

Berg always spoke quietly, politely, and with great precision. His

conversation always related entirely to himself; he would remain calm

and silent when the talk related to any topic that had no direct bearing

on himself. He could remain silent for hours without being at all put

out of countenance himself or making others uncomfortable, but as

soon as the conversation concerned himself he would begin to talk

circumstantially and with evident satisfaction.

“Consider my position, Peter Nikoláevich. Were I in the cavalry I

should get not more than two hundred rubles every four months, even

with the rank of lieutenant; but as it is I receive two hundred and

thirty,” said he, looking at Shinshín and the count with a joyful,

pleasant smile, as if it were obvious to him that his success must

always be the chief desire of everyone else.

“Besides that, Peter Nikoláevich, by exchanging into the Guards

I shall be in a more prominent position,” continued Berg, “and

vacancies occur much more frequently in the Foot Guards. Then just think

what can be done with two hundred and thirty rubles! I even manage to

put a little aside and to send something to my father,” he went on,

emitting a smoke ring.

“La balance y est... * A German knows how to skin a flint, as the

proverb says,” remarked Shinshín, moving his pipe to the other side

of his mouth and winking at the count.

* So that squares matters.

The count burst out laughing. The other guests seeing that Shinshín

was talking came up to listen. Berg, oblivious of irony or indifference,

continued to explain how by exchanging into the Guards he had already

gained a step on his old comrades of the Cadet Corps; how in wartime

the company commander might get killed and he, as senior in the company,

might easily succeed to the post; how popular he was with everyone in

the regiment, and how satisfied his father was with him. Berg evidently

enjoyed narrating all this, and did not seem to suspect that others,

too, might have their own interests. But all he said was so prettily

sedate, and the naïveté of his youthful egotism was so obvious, that

he disarmed his hearers.

“Well, my boy, you’ll get along wherever you go—foot or

horse—that I’ll warrant,” said Shinshín, patting him on the

shoulder and taking his feet off the sofa.

Berg smiled joyously. The count, followed by his guests, went into the

drawing room.

It was just the moment before a big dinner when the assembled guests,

expecting the summons to zakúska, * avoid engaging in any long

conversation but think it necessary to move about and talk, in order

to show that they are not at all impatient for their food. The host and

hostess look toward the door, and now and then glance at one another,

and the visitors try to guess from these glances who, or what, they are

waiting for—some important relation who has not yet arrived, or a dish

that is not yet ready.

* Hors d’oeuvres.

Pierre had come just at dinnertime and was sitting awkwardly in the

middle of the drawing room on the first chair he had come across,

blocking the way for everyone. The countess tried to make him talk,

but he went on naïvely looking around through his spectacles as if in

search of somebody and answered all her questions in monosyllables. He

was in the way and was the only one who did not notice the fact. Most of

the guests, knowing of the affair with the bear, looked with curiosity

at this big, stout, quiet man, wondering how such a clumsy, modest

fellow could have played such a prank on a policeman.

“You have only lately arrived?” the countess asked him.

“Oui, madame,” replied he, looking around him.

“You have not yet seen my husband?”

“Non, madame.” He smiled quite inappropriately.

“You have been in Paris recently, I believe? I suppose it’s very

interesting.”

“Very interesting.”

The countess exchanged glances with Anna Mikháylovna. The latter

understood that she was being asked to entertain this young man, and

sitting down beside him she began to speak about his father; but he

answered her, as he had the countess, only in monosyllables. The other

guests were all conversing with one another. “The Razumóvskis... It

was charming... You are very kind... Countess Apráksina...” was heard

on all sides. The countess rose and went into the ballroom.

“Márya Dmítrievna?” came her voice from there.

“Herself,” came the answer in a rough voice, and Márya Dmítrievna

entered the room.

All the unmarried ladies and even the married ones except the very

oldest rose. Márya Dmítrievna paused at the door. Tall and stout,

holding high her fifty-year-old head with its gray curls, she stood

surveying the guests, and leisurely arranged her wide sleeves as if

rolling them up. Márya Dmítrievna always spoke in Russian.

“Health and happiness to her whose name day we are keeping and to her

children,” she said, in her loud, full-toned voice which drowned all

others. “Well, you old sinner,” she went on, turning to the count

who was kissing her hand, “you’re feeling dull in Moscow, I daresay?

Nowhere to hunt with your dogs? But what is to be done, old man? Just

see how these nestlings are growing up,” and she pointed to the girls.

“You must look for husbands for them whether you like it or not....”

“Well,” said she, “how’s my Cossack?” (Márya Dmítrievna

always called Natásha a Cossack) and she stroked the child’s arm as

she came up fearless and gay to kiss her hand. “I know she’s a scamp

of a girl, but I like her.”

She took a pair of pear-shaped ruby earrings from her huge reticule and,

having given them to the rosy Natásha, who beamed with the pleasure

of her saint’s-day fete, turned away at once and addressed herself to

Pierre.

“Eh, eh, friend! Come here a bit,” said she, assuming a soft high

tone of voice. “Come here, my friend...” and she ominously tucked

up her sleeves still higher. Pierre approached, looking at her in a

childlike way through his spectacles.

“Come nearer, come nearer, friend! I used to be the only one to tell

your father the truth when he was in favor, and in your case it’s my

evident duty.” She paused. All were silent, expectant of what was to

follow, for this was clearly only a prelude.

“A fine lad! My word! A fine lad!... His father lies on his deathbed

and he amuses himself setting a policeman astride a bear! For shame,

sir, for shame! It would be better if you went to the war.”

She turned away and gave her hand to the count, who could hardly keep

from laughing.

“Well, I suppose it is time we were at table?” said Márya

Dmítrievna.

The count went in first with Márya Dmítrievna, the countess followed

on the arm of a colonel of hussars, a man of importance to them because

Nicholas was to go with him to the regiment; then came Anna Mikháylovna

with Shinshín. Berg gave his arm to Véra. The smiling Julie Karágina

went in with Nicholas. After them other couples followed, filling the

whole dining hall, and last of all the children, tutors, and governesses

followed singly. The footmen began moving about, chairs scraped, the

band struck up in the gallery, and the guests settled down in their

places. Then the strains of the count’s household band were replaced

by the clatter of knives and forks, the voices of visitors, and the

soft steps of the footmen. At one end of the table sat the countess with

Márya Dmítrievna on her right and Anna Mikháylovna on her left, the

other lady visitors were farther down. At the other end sat the count,

with the hussar colonel on his left and Shinshín and the other male

visitors on his right. Midway down the long table on one side sat the

grown-up young people: Véra beside Berg, and Pierre beside Borís; and

on the other side, the children, tutors, and governesses. From behind

the crystal decanters and fruit vases, the count kept glancing at his

wife and her tall cap with its light-blue ribbons, and busily filled

his neighbors’ glasses, not neglecting his own. The countess in turn,

without omitting her duties as hostess, threw significant glances from

behind the pineapples at her husband whose face and bald head seemed

by their redness to contrast more than usual with his gray hair. At the

ladies’ end an even chatter of voices was heard all the time, at the

men’s end the voices sounded louder and louder, especially that of the

colonel of hussars who, growing more and more flushed, ate and drank so

much that the count held him up as a pattern to the other guests. Berg

with tender smiles was saying to Véra that love is not an earthly but

a heavenly feeling. Borís was telling his new friend Pierre who the

guests were and exchanging glances with Natásha, who was sitting

opposite. Pierre spoke little but examined the new faces, and ate a

great deal. Of the two soups he chose turtle with savory patties and

went on to the game without omitting a single dish or one of the wines.

These latter the butler thrust mysteriously forward, wrapped in a

napkin, from behind the next man’s shoulders and whispered: “Dry

Madeira”... “Hungarian”... or “Rhine wine” as the case might

be. Of the four crystal glasses engraved with the count’s monogram

that stood before his plate, Pierre held out one at random and drank

with enjoyment, gazing with ever-increasing amiability at the other

guests. Natásha, who sat opposite, was looking at Borís as girls of

thirteen look at the boy they are in love with and have just kissed for

the first time. Sometimes that same look fell on Pierre, and that funny

lively little girl’s look made him inclined to laugh without knowing

why.

Nicholas sat at some distance from Sónya, beside Julie Karágina, to

whom he was again talking with the same involuntary smile. Sónya wore

a company smile but was evidently tormented by jealousy; now she turned

pale, now blushed and strained every nerve to overhear what Nicholas

and Julie were saying to one another. The governess kept looking round

uneasily as if preparing to resent any slight that might be put upon the

children. The German tutor was trying to remember all the dishes, wines,

and kinds of dessert, in order to send a full description of the dinner

to his people in Germany; and he felt greatly offended when the butler

with a bottle wrapped in a napkin passed him by. He frowned, trying to

appear as if he did not want any of that wine, but was mortified because

no one would understand that it was not to quench his thirst or from

greediness that he wanted it, but simply from a conscientious desire for

knowledge.