Chương Chương 251 · 第251章

Meanwhile, the city itself was deserted. There was hardly anyone in the

streets. The gates and shops were all closed, only here and there round

the taverns solitary shouts or drunken songs could be heard. Nobody

drove through the streets and footsteps were rarely heard. The

Povarskáya was quite still and deserted. The huge courtyard of the

Rostóvs’ house was littered with wisps of hay and with dung from the

horses, and not a soul was to be seen there. In the great drawing

room of the house, which had been left with all it contained, were

two people. They were the yard porter Ignát, and the page boy Míshka,

Vasílich’s grandson who had stayed in Moscow with his grandfather.

Míshka had opened the clavichord and was strumming on it with

one finger. The yard porter, his arms akimbo, stood smiling with

satisfaction before the large mirror.

“Isn’t it fine, eh, Uncle Ignát?” said the boy, suddenly beginning to

strike the keyboard with both hands.

“Only fancy!” answered Ignát, surprised at the broadening grin on his

face in the mirror.

“Impudence! Impudence!” they heard behind them the voice of Mávra

Kuzmínichna who had entered silently. “How he’s grinning, the fat mug!

Is that what you’re here for? Nothing’s cleared away down there and

Vasílich is worn out. Just you wait a bit!”

Ignát left off smiling, adjusted his belt, and went out of the room with

meekly downcast eyes.

“Aunt, I did it gently,” said the boy.

“I’ll give you something gently, you monkey you!” cried Mávra

Kuzmínichna, raising her arm threateningly. “Go and get the samovar to

boil for your grandfather.”

Mávra Kuzmínichna flicked the dust off the clavichord and closed it, and

with a deep sigh left the drawing room and locked its main door.

Going out into the yard she paused to consider where she should go

next—to drink tea in the servants’ wing with Vasílich, or into the

storeroom to put away what still lay about.

She heard the sound of quick footsteps in the quiet street. Someone

stopped at the gate, and the latch rattled as someone tried to open it.

Mávra Kuzmínichna went to the gate.

“Who do you want?”

“The count—Count Ilyá Andréevich Rostóv.”

“And who are you?”

“An officer, I have to see him,” came the reply in a pleasant, well-bred

Russian voice.

Mávra Kuzmínichna opened the gate and an officer of eighteen, with the

round face of a Rostóv, entered the yard.

“They have gone away, sir. Went away yesterday at vespertime,” said

Mávra Kuzmínichna cordially.

The young officer standing in the gateway, as if hesitating whether to

enter or not, clicked his tongue.

“Ah, how annoying!” he muttered. “I should have come yesterday.... Ah,

what a pity.”

Meanwhile, Mávra Kuzmínichna was attentively and sympathetically

examining the familiar Rostóv features of the young man’s face, his

tattered coat and trodden-down boots.

“What did you want to see the count for?” she asked.

“Oh well... it can’t be helped!” said he in a tone of vexation and

placed his hand on the gate as if to leave.

He again paused in indecision.

“You see,” he suddenly said, “I am a kinsman of the count’s and he has

been very kind to me. As you see” (he glanced with an amused air and

good-natured smile at his coat and boots) “my things are worn out and I

have no money, so I was going to ask the count...”

Mávra Kuzmínichna did not let him finish.

“Just wait a minute, sir. One little moment,” said she.

And as soon as the officer let go of the gate handle she turned and,

hurrying away on her old legs, went through the back yard to the

servants’ quarters.

While Mávra Kuzmínichna was running to her room the officer walked about

the yard gazing at his worn-out boots with lowered head and a faint

smile on his lips. “What a pity I’ve missed Uncle! What a nice old

woman! Where has she run off to? And how am I to find the nearest way

to overtake my regiment, which must by now be getting near the Rogózhski

gate?” thought he. Just then Mávra Kuzmínichna appeared from behind

the corner of the house with a frightened yet resolute look, carrying a

rolled-up check kerchief in her hand. While still a few steps from

the officer she unfolded the kerchief and took out of it a white

twenty-five-ruble assignat and hastily handed it to him.

“If his excellency had been at home, as a kinsman he would of course...

but as it is...”

Mávra Kuzmínichna grew abashed and confused. The officer did not

decline, but took the note quietly and thanked her.

“If the count had been at home...” Mávra Kuzmínichna went on

apologetically. “Christ be with you, sir! May God preserve you!” said

she, bowing as she saw him out.

Swaying his head and smiling as if amused at himself, the officer ran

almost at a trot through the deserted streets toward the Yaúza bridge to

overtake his regiment.

But Mávra Kuzmínichna stood at the closed gate for some time with moist

eyes, pensively swaying her head and feeling an unexpected flow of

motherly tenderness and pity for the unknown young officer.