第 十七 章 · 第17章

After Anna Mikháylovna had driven off with her son to visit Count Cyril

Vladímirovich Bezúkhov, Countess Rostóva sat for a long time all

alone applying her handkerchief to her eyes. At last she rang.

“What is the matter with you, my dear?” she said crossly to the maid

who kept her waiting some minutes. “Don’t you wish to serve me? Then

I’ll find you another place.”

The countess was upset by her friend’s sorrow and humiliating poverty,

and was therefore out of sorts, a state of mind which with her always

found expression in calling her maid “my dear” and speaking to her

with exaggerated politeness.

“I am very sorry, ma’am,” answered the maid.

“Ask the count to come to me.”

The count came waddling in to see his wife with a rather guilty look as

usual.

“Well, little countess? What a sauté of game au madère we are to

have, my dear! I tasted it. The thousand rubles I paid for Tarás were

not ill-spent. He is worth it!”

He sat down by his wife, his elbows on his knees and his hands ruffling

his gray hair.

“What are your commands, little countess?”

“You see, my dear... What’s that mess?” she said, pointing to his

waistcoat. “It’s the sauté, most likely,” she added with a smile.

“Well, you see, Count, I want some money.”

Her face became sad.

“Oh, little countess!” ... and the count began bustling to get out

his pocketbook.

“I want a great deal, Count! I want five hundred rubles,” and taking

out her cambric handkerchief she began wiping her husband’s waistcoat.

“Yes, immediately, immediately! Hey, who’s there?” he called out

in a tone only used by persons who are certain that those they call will

rush to obey the summons. “Send Dmítri to me!”

Dmítri, a man of good family who had been brought up in the count’s

house and now managed all his affairs, stepped softly into the room.

“This is what I want, my dear fellow,” said the count to the

deferential young man who had entered. “Bring me...” he reflected

a moment, “yes, bring me seven hundred rubles, yes! But mind, don’t

bring me such tattered and dirty notes as last time, but nice clean ones

for the countess.”

“Yes, Dmítri, clean ones, please,” said the countess, sighing

deeply.

“When would you like them, your excellency?” asked Dmítri. “Allow

me to inform you... But, don’t be uneasy,” he added, noticing that

the count was beginning to breathe heavily and quickly which was always

a sign of approaching anger. “I was forgetting... Do you wish it

brought at once?”

“Yes, yes; just so! Bring it. Give it to the countess.”

“What a treasure that Dmítri is,” added the count with a smile when

the young man had departed. “There is never any ‘impossible’ with

him. That’s a thing I hate! Everything is possible.”

“Ah, money, Count, money! How much sorrow it causes in the world,”

said the countess. “But I am in great need of this sum.”

“You, my little countess, are a notorious spendthrift,” said the

count, and having kissed his wife’s hand he went back to his study.

When Anna Mikháylovna returned from Count Bezúkhov’s the money, all

in clean notes, was lying ready under a handkerchief on the countess’

little table, and Anna Mikháylovna noticed that something was agitating

her.

“Well, my dear?” asked the countess.

“Oh, what a terrible state he is in! One would not know him, he is so

ill! I was only there a few moments and hardly said a word...”

“Annette, for heaven’s sake don’t refuse me,” the countess

began, with a blush that looked very strange on her thin, dignified,

elderly face, and she took the money from under the handkerchief.

Anna Mikháylovna instantly guessed her intention and stooped to be

ready to embrace the countess at the appropriate moment.

“This is for Borís from me, for his outfit.”

Anna Mikháylovna was already embracing her and weeping. The countess

wept too. They wept because they were friends, and because they were

kindhearted, and because they—friends from childhood—had to think

about such a base thing as money, and because their youth was over....

But those tears were pleasant to them both.