บทที่ บทที่ 16 · 第16章

Pierre, after all, had not managed to choose a career for himself in

Petersburg, and had been expelled from there for riotous conduct and

sent to Moscow. The story told about him at Count Rostóv’s was true.

Pierre had taken part in tying a policeman to a bear. He had now been

for some days in Moscow and was staying as usual at his father’s

house. Though he expected that the story of his escapade would be

already known in Moscow and that the ladies about his father—who were

never favorably disposed toward him—would have used it to turn the

count against him, he nevertheless on the day of his arrival went to

his father’s part of the house. Entering the drawing room, where the

princesses spent most of their time, he greeted the ladies, two of whom

were sitting at embroidery frames while a third read aloud. It was the

eldest who was reading—the one who had met Anna Mikháylovna. The

two younger ones were embroidering: both were rosy and pretty and they

differed only in that one had a little mole on her lip which made her

much prettier. Pierre was received as if he were a corpse or a leper.

The eldest princess paused in her reading and silently stared at him

with frightened eyes; the second assumed precisely the same expression;

while the youngest, the one with the mole, who was of a cheerful and

lively disposition, bent over her frame to hide a smile probably evoked

by the amusing scene she foresaw. She drew her wool down through the

canvas and, scarcely able to refrain from laughing, stooped as if trying

to make out the pattern.

“How do you do, cousin?” said Pierre. “You don’t recognize

me?”

“I recognize you only too well, too well.”

“How is the count? Can I see him?” asked Pierre, awkwardly as usual,

but unabashed.

“The count is suffering physically and mentally, and apparently you

have done your best to increase his mental sufferings.”

“Can I see the count?” Pierre again asked.

“Hm.... If you wish to kill him, to kill him outright, you can see

him... Olga, go and see whether Uncle’s beef tea is ready—it is

almost time,” she added, giving Pierre to understand that they were

busy, and busy making his father comfortable, while evidently he,

Pierre, was only busy causing him annoyance.

Olga went out. Pierre stood looking at the sisters; then he bowed and

said: “Then I will go to my rooms. You will let me know when I can see

him.”

And he left the room, followed by the low but ringing laughter of the

sister with the mole.

Next day Prince Vasíli had arrived and settled in the count’s house.

He sent for Pierre and said to him: “My dear fellow, if you are going

to behave here as you did in Petersburg, you will end very badly; that

is all I have to say to you. The count is very, very ill, and you must

not see him at all.”

Since then Pierre had not been disturbed and had spent the whole time in

his rooms upstairs.

When Borís appeared at his door Pierre was pacing up and down his room,

stopping occasionally at a corner to make menacing gestures at the wall,

as if running a sword through an invisible foe, and glaring savagely

over his spectacles, and then again resuming his walk, muttering

indistinct words, shrugging his shoulders and gesticulating.

“England is done for,” said he, scowling and pointing his finger

at someone unseen. “Mr. Pitt, as a traitor to the nation and to the

rights of man, is sentenced to...” But before Pierre—who at that

moment imagined himself to be Napoleon in person and to have just

effected the dangerous crossing of the Straits of Dover and captured

London—could pronounce Pitt’s sentence, he saw a well-built and

handsome young officer entering his room. Pierre paused. He had left

Moscow when Borís was a boy of fourteen, and had quite forgotten him,

but in his usual impulsive and hearty way he took Borís by the hand

with a friendly smile.

“Do you remember me?” asked Borís quietly with a pleasant smile.

“I have come with my mother to see the count, but it seems he is not

well.”

“Yes, it seems he is ill. People are always disturbing him,”

answered Pierre, trying to remember who this young man was.

Borís felt that Pierre did not recognize him but did not consider

it necessary to introduce himself, and without experiencing the least

embarrassment looked Pierre straight in the face.

“Count Rostóv asks you to come to dinner today,” said he, after a

considerable pause which made Pierre feel uncomfortable.

“Ah, Count Rostóv!” exclaimed Pierre joyfully. “Then you are his

son, Ilyá? Only fancy, I didn’t know you at first. Do you remember

how we went to the Sparrow Hills with Madame Jacquot?... It’s such an

age...”

“You are mistaken,” said Borís deliberately, with a bold and

slightly sarcastic smile. “I am Borís, son of Princess Anna

Mikháylovna Drubetskáya. Rostóv, the father, is Ilyá, and his son is

Nicholas. I never knew any Madame Jacquot.”

Pierre shook his head and arms as if attacked by mosquitoes or bees.

“Oh dear, what am I thinking about? I’ve mixed everything up. One

has so many relatives in Moscow! So you are Borís? Of course. Well, now

we know where we are. And what do you think of the Boulogne expedition?

The English will come off badly, you know, if Napoleon gets across the

Channel. I think the expedition is quite feasible. If only Villeneuve

doesn’t make a mess of things!”

Borís knew nothing about the Boulogne expedition; he did not read the

papers and it was the first time he had heard Villeneuve’s name.

“We here in Moscow are more occupied with dinner parties and scandal

than with politics,” said he in his quiet ironical tone. “I know

nothing about it and have not thought about it. Moscow is chiefly busy

with gossip,” he continued. “Just now they are talking about you and

your father.”

Pierre smiled in his good-natured way as if afraid for his companion’s

sake that the latter might say something he would afterwards regret.

But Borís spoke distinctly, clearly, and dryly, looking straight into

Pierre’s eyes.

“Moscow has nothing else to do but gossip,” Borís went on.

“Everybody is wondering to whom the count will leave his fortune,

though he may perhaps outlive us all, as I sincerely hope he will...”

“Yes, it is all very horrid,” interrupted Pierre, “very horrid.”

Pierre was still afraid that this officer might inadvertently say

something disconcerting to himself.

“And it must seem to you,” said Borís flushing slightly, but not

changing his tone or attitude, “it must seem to you that everyone is

trying to get something out of the rich man?”

“So it does,” thought Pierre.

“But I just wish to say, to avoid misunderstandings, that you are

quite mistaken if you reckon me or my mother among such people. We are

very poor, but for my own part at any rate, for the very reason that

your father is rich, I don’t regard myself as a relation of his, and

neither I nor my mother would ever ask or take anything from him.”

For a long time Pierre could not understand, but when he did, he jumped

up from the sofa, seized Borís under the elbow in his quick, clumsy

way, and, blushing far more than Borís, began to speak with a feeling

of mingled shame and vexation.

“Well, this is strange! Do you suppose I... who could think?... I know

very well...”

But Borís again interrupted him.

“I am glad I have spoken out fully. Perhaps you did not like it? You

must excuse me,” said he, putting Pierre at ease instead of being put

at ease by him, “but I hope I have not offended you. I always make it

a rule to speak out... Well, what answer am I to take? Will you come to

dinner at the Rostóvs’?”

And Borís, having apparently relieved himself of an onerous duty and

extricated himself from an awkward situation and placed another in it,

became quite pleasant again.

“No, but I say,” said Pierre, calming down, “you are a wonderful

fellow! What you have just said is good, very good. Of course you

don’t know me. We have not met for such a long time... not since we

were children. You might think that I... I understand, quite understand.

I could not have done it myself, I should not have had the courage, but

it’s splendid. I am very glad to have made your acquaintance. It’s

queer,” he added after a pause, “that you should have suspected

me!” He began to laugh. “Well, what of it! I hope we’ll get better

acquainted,” and he pressed Borís’ hand. “Do you know, I have not

once been in to see the count. He has not sent for me.... I am sorry for

him as a man, but what can one do?”

“And so you think Napoleon will manage to get an army across?” asked

Borís with a smile.

Pierre saw that Borís wished to change the subject, and being of the

same mind he began explaining the advantages and disadvantages of the

Boulogne expedition.

A footman came in to summon Borís—the princess was going. Pierre, in

order to make Borís’ better acquaintance, promised to come to dinner,

and warmly pressing his hand looked affectionately over his spectacles

into Borís’ eyes. After he had gone Pierre continued pacing up and

down the room for a long time, no longer piercing an imaginary foe with

his imaginary sword, but smiling at the remembrance of that pleasant,

intelligent, and resolute young man.

As often happens in early youth, especially to one who leads a lonely

life, he felt an unaccountable tenderness for this young man and made up

his mind that they would be friends.

Prince Vasíli saw the princess off. She held a handkerchief to her eyes

and her face was tearful.

“It is dreadful, dreadful!” she was saying, “but cost me what it

may I shall do my duty. I will come and spend the night. He must not be

left like this. Every moment is precious. I can’t think why his nieces

put it off. Perhaps God will help me to find a way to prepare him!...

Adieu, Prince! May God support you...”

“Adieu, ma bonne,” answered Prince Vasíli turning away from her.

“Oh, he is in a dreadful state,” said the mother to her son when

they were in the carriage. “He hardly recognizes anybody.”

“I don’t understand, Mamma—what is his attitude to Pierre?”

asked the son.

“The will will show that, my dear; our fate also depends on it.”

“But why do you expect that he will leave us anything?”

“Ah, my dear! He is so rich, and we are so poor!”

“Well, that is hardly a sufficient reason, Mamma...”

“Oh, Heaven! How ill he is!” exclaimed the mother.