“Do you remember me?” Boris said quietly, with a pleasant smile. “I’ve come to see the count with my mother, but it seems he’s not entirely well.”
“Yes, it seems he’s unwell. They keep disturbing him,” Pierre replied, trying to recall who this young man was.
Boris felt that Pierre did not recognize him, but he did not consider it necessary to give his name, and, not feeling the least embarrassed, looked him straight in the eye.
“Count Rostov invites you to dinner today,” he said after a rather long silence, which was awkward for Pierre.
“Ah! Count Rostov!” Pierre began joyfully. “So you’re his son Ilya? Can you imagine, I didn’t recognize you at first. Remember, we used to go to the Sparrow Hills with Madame Jacquot…long ago.”
“You are mistaken,” Boris said unhurriedly, with a bold and slightly mocking smile. “I am Boris, the son of Princess Anna Mikhailovna Drubetskoy. The Rostov father is called Ilya, the son is Nikolai. And I never knew any Madame Jacquot.”
Pierre waved his hands and head, as if he was being attacked by mosquitoes or bees.
“Ah, well, how about that! I got everything confused. There are so many relations in Moscow! You’re Boris…yes. So we’ve finally straightened it out. Well, what do you think of the Boulogne expedition? Won’t the English be in trouble if Napoleon crosses the channel? I think the expedition is very important. If only Villeneuve doesn’t botch it!”31
Boris knew nothing about the Boulogne expedition; he did not read the newspapers, and was hearing about Villeneuve for the first time.
“Here in Moscow we’re more taken up with dinners and gossip than with politics,” he said in his calm, mocking tone. “I neither know nor think about any of it. Moscow is taken up with gossip most of all,” he went on. “Now the talk is about you and the count.”
Pierre smiled his kindly smile, as if fearing that his interlocutor might say something he would then regret. But Boris spoke distinctly, clearly, drily, looking Pierre straight in the eye.
“Moscow has nothing else to do but gossip,” he went on. “Everyone’s concerned about whom the count will leave his fortune to, though maybe he’ll outlive us all, which is my heartfelt wish…”
“Yes, it’s all very painful,” Pierre picked up, “very painful.” Pierre kept fearing that this officer would accidentally fall into a conversation awkward for himself.
“And it must seem to you,” Boris said, blushing slightly, but without changing his voice or pose, “it must seem to you that all everyone is concerned with is getting something out of the rich man.”
“Here we go,” thought Pierre.
“But I precisely wish to tell you, so as to avoid misunderstandings, that you are greatly mistaken if you count my mother and me among those people. We’re very poor, but I can speak for myself at least: precisely because your father is rich, I don’t consider myself his relation, and neither I nor my mother will ever ask for or accept anything from him.”
Pierre could not understand for a long time, but when he did, he jumped up from the sofa, seized Boris’s arm from below with his peculiar quickness and awkwardness, and, turning much more red than Boris, began speaking with a mixed feeling of shame and vexation:
“How strange! Did I ever…and who could think…I know very well…”
But Boris interrupted him again:
“I’m glad I’ve spoken it all out. Maybe it’s unpleasant for you, you must excuse me,” he said, reassuring Pierre instead of being reassured by him, “but I hope I haven’t offended you. I make it a rule to say everything directly…What shall I tell them, then? Will you come to the Rostovs’ for dinner?”
And Boris, obviously relieving himself of a painful duty, getting out of an awkward situation himself, and putting another man in one, again became perfectly pleasant.
“No, listen,” said Pierre, calming down. “You’re a surprising man. What you just said is good, very good. Of course, you don’t know me. We haven’t met for so long…since we were children…You may suppose that I…I understand you, understand you very well. I wouldn’t have done it, I wouldn’t have courage enough, but it’s beautiful. I’m very glad to have made your acquaintance. It’s strange,” he added, after a pause, and smiling, “what you supposed of me!” He laughed. “Well, so what? We’ll become better acquainted. If you please.” He shook Boris’s hand. “You know, I haven’t once been to see the count. He hasn’t sent for me…I pity him as a human being…But what to do?”
“And you think Napoleon will manage to send the army across?” Boris asked, smiling.
Pierre understood that Boris wanted to change the subject, and, agreeing with him, began to explain the advantages and disadvantages of the Boulogne undertaking.
A lackey came to summon Boris to the princess. The princess was leaving. Pierre promised to come for dinner, in order to become closer with Boris, pressed his hand hard, looked him affectionately in the eye through his spectacles…After his departure, Pierre spent a long time pacing the room, no longer piercing the invisible enemy with his sword, but smiling at the memory of this nice, intelligent, and firm young man.
As happens in early youth, and especially when one is alone, he felt a gratuitous tenderness for this young man and promised himself to be sure to become friends with him.
Prince Vassily was seeing the princess off. The princess was holding a handkerchief to her eyes, and her face was all in tears.
“It’s terrible! terrible!” she was saying. “But whatever it costs me, I will fulfill my duty. I will come to spend the night. He can’t be left like that. Every minute is precious. I don’t understand why the princesses keep delaying. Maybe God will help me find the means to prepare him…Adieu, mon prince, que le bon Dieu vous soutienne…”*107
“Adieu, ma bonne,”†108 Prince Vassily replied, turning away from her.
“Ah, he’s in a terrible state,” the mother said to the son, as they were getting back into the carriage. “He hardly recognizes anyone.”
“I don’t understand, mama, what is his attitude towards Pierre?” asked the son.
“It will all be spelled out in the will; our fate, too, depends on it…”
“But why do you think he’ll leave us anything?”
“Ah, my friend! He’s so rich, and we’re so poor!”
“Well, that’s still not enough of a reason, Mama.”
“Ah, my God! my God! he’s so ill!” the mother exclaimed.
XIV
When Anna Mikhailovna and her son left for Count Kirill Vladimirovich Bezukhov’s, Countess Rostov sat for a long time alone, putting her handkerchief to her eyes. Finally she rang.
“What’s wrong, dear,” she said crossly to the girl, who made her wait a few minutes. “You don’t want to serve me? Then I’ll find another place for you, miss.”
The countess was upset by her friend’s woes and humiliating poverty, and was therefore out of sorts, which always expressed itself in her calling the maid “dear” and “miss.”
“Beg pardon, ma’am,” said the maid.
“Ask the count to come to me.”
The count, waddling, approached his wife with a somewhat guilty look, as he always did.
“Well, my little countess! what a sauté au madère of hazel grouse we’ll have, ma chère! I sampled it. Not for nothing did I pay a thousand roubles for Taraska. He’s worth it!”
He sat down by his wife, resting his elbows dashingly on his knees and ruffling his gray hair.
“What are your orders, little countess!”
“The thing is, my friend—what’s this stain you’ve got there?” she said, pointing to his waistcoat. “Must be the sauté,” she added, smiling. “The thing is, Count, that I need money.”