บทที่ บทที่ 148 · 第148章

In 1811 there was living in Moscow a French doctor—Métivier—who had

rapidly become the fashion. He was enormously tall, handsome, amiable

as Frenchmen are, and was, as all Moscow said, an extraordinarily clever

doctor. He was received in the best houses not merely as a doctor, but

as an equal.

Prince Nicholas had always ridiculed medicine, but latterly on

Mademoiselle Bourienne’s advice had allowed this doctor to visit him

and had grown accustomed to him. Métivier came to see the prince about

twice a week.

On December 6—St. Nicholas’ Day and the prince’s name day—all

Moscow came to the prince’s front door but he gave orders to admit no

one and to invite to dinner only a small number, a list of whom he gave

to Princess Mary.

Métivier, who came in the morning with his felicitations, considered

it proper in his quality of doctor de forcer la consigne, * as he told

Princess Mary, and went in to see the prince. It happened that on that

morning of his name day the prince was in one of his worst moods. He had

been going about the house all the morning finding fault with everyone

and pretending not to understand what was said to him and not to be

understood himself. Princess Mary well knew this mood of quiet absorbed

querulousness, which generally culminated in a burst of rage, and she

went about all that morning as though facing a cocked and loaded gun

and awaited the inevitable explosion. Until the doctor’s arrival the

morning had passed off safely. After admitting the doctor, Princess Mary

sat down with a book in the drawing room near the door through which she

could hear all that passed in the study.

* To force the guard.

At first she heard only Métivier’s voice, then her father’s, then

both voices began speaking at the same time, the door was flung open,

and on the threshold appeared the handsome figure of the terrified

Métivier with his shock of black hair, and the prince in his dressing

gown and fez, his face distorted with fury and the pupils of his eyes

rolled downwards.

“You don’t understand?” shouted the prince, “but I do! French

spy, slave of Buonaparte, spy, get out of my house! Be off, I tell

you...” and he slammed the door.

Métivier, shrugging his shoulders, went up to Mademoiselle Bourienne

who at the sound of shouting had run in from an adjoining room.

“The prince is not very well: bile and rush of blood to the head. Keep

calm, I will call again tomorrow,” said Métivier; and putting his

fingers to his lips he hastened away.

Through the study door came the sound of slippered feet and the cry:

“Spies, traitors, traitors everywhere! Not a moment’s peace in my

own house!”

After Métivier’s departure the old prince called his daughter in, and

the whole weight of his wrath fell on her. She was to blame that a spy

had been admitted. Had he not told her, yes, told her to make a list,

and not to admit anyone who was not on that list? Then why was that

scoundrel admitted? She was the cause of it all. With her, he said, he

could not have a moment’s peace and could not die quietly.

“No, ma’am! We must part, we must part! Understand that, understand

it! I cannot endure any more,” he said, and left the room. Then, as if

afraid she might find some means of consolation, he returned and trying

to appear calm added: “And don’t imagine I have said this in a

moment of anger. I am calm. I have thought it over, and it will be

carried out—we must part; so find some place for yourself....” But

he could not restrain himself and with the virulence of which only one

who loves is capable, evidently suffering himself, he shook his fists at

her and screamed:

“If only some fool would marry her!” Then he slammed the door, sent

for Mademoiselle Bourienne, and subsided into his study.

At two o’clock the six chosen guests assembled for dinner.

These guests—the famous Count Rostopchín, Prince Lopukhín with his

nephew, General Chatróv an old war comrade of the prince’s, and

of the younger generation Pierre and Borís Drubetskóy—awaited the

prince in the drawing room.

Borís, who had come to Moscow on leave a few days before, had been

anxious to be presented to Prince Nicholas Bolkónski, and had contrived

to ingratiate himself so well that the old prince in his case made an

exception to the rule of not receiving bachelors in his house.

The prince’s house did not belong to what is known as fashionable

society, but his little circle—though not much talked about in

town—was one it was more flattering to be received in than any other.

Borís had realized this the week before when the commander in chief in

his presence invited Rostopchín to dinner on St. Nicholas’ Day, and

Rostopchín had replied that he could not come:

“On that day I always go to pay my devotions to the relics of Prince

Nicholas Bolkónski.”

“Oh, yes, yes!” replied the commander in chief. “How is he?...”

The small group that assembled before dinner in the lofty old-fashioned

drawing room with its old furniture resembled the solemn gathering of

a court of justice. All were silent or talked in low tones. Prince

Nicholas came in serious and taciturn. Princess Mary seemed even quieter

and more diffident than usual. The guests were reluctant to address

her, feeling that she was in no mood for their conversation. Count

Rostopchín alone kept the conversation going, now relating the latest

town news, and now the latest political gossip.

Lopukhín and the old general occasionally took part in the

conversation. Prince Bolkónski listened as a presiding judge receives a

report, only now and then, silently or by a brief word, showing that

he took heed of what was being reported to him. The tone of the

conversation was such as indicated that no one approved of what was

being done in the political world. Incidents were related evidently

confirming the opinion that everything was going from bad to worse, but

whether telling a story or giving an opinion the speaker always stopped,

or was stopped, at the point beyond which his criticism might touch the

sovereign himself.

At dinner the talk turned on the latest political news: Napoleon’s

seizure of the Duke of Oldenburg’s territory, and the Russian Note,

hostile to Napoleon, which had been sent to all the European courts.

“Bonaparte treats Europe as a pirate does a captured vessel,” said

Count Rostopchín, repeating a phrase he had uttered several times

before. “One only wonders at the long-suffering or blindness of the

crowned heads. Now the Pope’s turn has come and Bonaparte doesn’t

scruple to depose the head of the Catholic Church—yet all keep silent!

Our sovereign alone has protested against the seizure of the Duke

of Oldenburg’s territory, and even...” Count Rostopchín paused,

feeling that he had reached the limit beyond which censure was

impossible.

“Other territories have been offered in exchange for the Duchy of

Oldenburg,” said Prince Bolkónski. “He shifts the Dukes about as

I might move my serfs from Bald Hills to Boguchárovo or my Ryazán

estates.”

“The Duke of Oldenburg bears his misfortunes with admirable

strength of character and resignation,” remarked Borís, joining in

respectfully.

He said this because on his journey from Petersburg he had had the honor

of being presented to the Duke. Prince Bolkónski glanced at the

young man as if about to say something in reply, but changed his mind,

evidently considering him too young.

“I have read our protests about the Oldenburg affair and was surprised

how badly the Note was worded,” remarked Count Rostopchín in the

casual tone of a man dealing with a subject quite familiar to him.

Pierre looked at Rostopchín with naïve astonishment, not understanding

why he should be disturbed by the bad composition of the Note.

“Does it matter, Count, how the Note is worded,” he asked, “so

long as its substance is forcible?”

“My dear fellow, with our five hundred thousand troops it should be

easy to have a good style,” returned Count Rostopchín.

Pierre now understood the count’s dissatisfaction with the wording of

the Note.

“One would have thought quill drivers enough had sprung up,”

remarked the old prince. “There in Petersburg they are always

writing—not notes only but even new laws. My Andrew there has written

a whole volume of laws for Russia. Nowadays they are always writing!”

and he laughed unnaturally.

There was a momentary pause in the conversation; the old general cleared

his throat to draw attention.

“Did you hear of the last event at the review in Petersburg? The

figure cut by the new French ambassador.”

“Eh? Yes, I heard something: he said something awkward in His

Majesty’s presence.”

“His Majesty drew attention to the Grenadier division and to the march

past,” continued the general, “and it seems the ambassador took

no notice and allowed himself to reply that: ‘We in France pay no

attention to such trifles!’ The Emperor did not condescend to reply.

At the next review, they say, the Emperor did not once deign to address

him.”

All were silent. On this fact relating to the Emperor personally, it was

impossible to pass any judgment.

“Impudent fellows!” said the prince. “You know Métivier? I turned

him out of my house this morning. He was here; they admitted him in

spite of my request that they should let no one in,” he went on,

glancing angrily at his daughter.

And he narrated his whole conversation with the French doctor and

the reasons that convinced him that Métivier was a spy. Though these

reasons were very insufficient and obscure, no one made any rejoinder.

After the roast, champagne was served. The guests rose to congratulate

the old prince. Princess Mary, too, went round to him.

He gave her a cold, angry look and offered her his wrinkled,

clean-shaven cheek to kiss. The whole expression of his face told

her that he had not forgotten the morning’s talk, that his decision

remained in force, and only the presence of visitors hindered his

speaking of it to her now.

When they went into the drawing room where coffee was served, the old

men sat together.

Prince Nicholas grew more animated and expressed his views on the

impending war.

He said that our wars with Bonaparte would be disastrous so long as we

sought alliances with the Germans and thrust ourselves into European

affairs, into which we had been drawn by the Peace of Tilsit. “We

ought not to fight either for or against Austria. Our political

interests are all in the East, and in regard to Bonaparte the only thing

is to have an armed frontier and a firm policy, and he will never dare

to cross the Russian frontier, as was the case in 1807!”

“How can we fight the French, Prince?” said Count Rostopchín.

“Can we arm ourselves against our teachers and divinities? Look at

our youths, look at our ladies! The French are our Gods: Paris is our

Kingdom of Heaven.”

He began speaking louder, evidently to be heard by everyone.

“French dresses, French ideas, French feelings! There now, you turned

Métivier out by the scruff of his neck because he is a Frenchman and

a scoundrel, but our ladies crawl after him on their knees. I went to

a party last night, and there out of five ladies three were Roman

Catholics and had the Pope’s indulgence for doing woolwork on Sundays.

And they themselves sit there nearly naked, like the signboards at our

Public Baths if I may say so. Ah, when one looks at our young people,

Prince, one would like to take Peter the Great’s old cudgel out of the

museum and belabor them in the Russian way till all the nonsense jumps

out of them.”

All were silent. The old prince looked at Rostopchín with a smile and

wagged his head approvingly.

“Well, good-by, your excellency, keep well!” said Rostopchín,

getting up with characteristic briskness and holding out his hand to the

prince.

“Good-by, my dear fellow.... His words are music, I never tire of

hearing him!” said the old prince, keeping hold of the hand and

offering his cheek to be kissed.

Following Rostopchín’s example the others also rose.