Page 24 of 470
“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 Bors 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 Bors under the elbow in his quick, clumsy way, and, blushing far more than Bors, 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 Bors 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 Rostvs’?”
And Bors, 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 Bors’ 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 Bors with a smile.
Pierre saw that Bors 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 Bors—the princess was going. Pierre, in order to make Bors’ better acquaintance, promised to come to dinner, and warmly pressing his hand looked affectionately over his spectacles into Bors’ 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 Vasli 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 Vasli 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.
After Anna Mikhylovna had driven off with her son to visit Count Cyril Vladmirovich Bezkhov, Countess Rostva 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 saut of game au madre we are to have, my dear! I tasted it. The thousand rubles I paid for Tars 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 saut, 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 Dmtri to me!”
Dmtri, 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.
