War And Peace

The old countess’s condition was understood by the whole household, though no one ever talked about it, and they all went out of their way to satisfy her various needs. Just now and then a quick glance or a sad half-smile would pass between Nikolay, Pierre, Natasha and Countess Marya, enough to imply their shared awareness of her condition.

But these glances implied something else besides. They said that her life’s work was done, that what they saw now was not her whole self, that one day we’ll all be like that, and they were only too pleased to indulge her, to hold back for the sake of this pathetic creature, once so dear, once as full of life as they were. What their glances said was, ‘Memento mori.’

Within the household only one or two completely heartless and stupid people and the little ones failed to understand this, and they kept away from her.

CHAPTER 13

When Pierre and his wife came into the drawing-room the countess happened to be in her usual condition of needing the intellectual exercise of a game of patience, and so – although by force of habit she trotted out the same words she always said when Pierre or her son came back from a trip: ‘About time too, my dear boy. We thought you’d never come. Well, thank God you’re back!’ and when she got her presents she came out with more stock phrases: ‘It’s not the gift that counts, my dear . . . Thank you for thinking of an old woman like me . . .’ – it was quite clear that Pierre’s entrance at that moment was unwelcome, because it was a distraction from her half-finished round of patience. She finished her game, and only then got down to opening the presents. These consisted of a beautifully carved card-case, a bright blue Sèvres cup with a lid and shepherdesses painted on it and a gold snuff-box with the count’s portrait on it, which Pierre had ordered from a miniature-painter in Petersburg. The countess had been longing for a snuff-box like this, but just now she didn’t feel like weeping, so she gave the portrait nothing more than a casual glance and concentrated on the card-case.

‘Thank you so much, my dear. You’re a real comfort,’ she said, as always. ‘But best of all, you have brought yourself back. It has been like nothing on earth here. You really must speak to your wife. You wouldn’t believe it – she’s like a mad woman when you’re not here. She can’t so much as see or think,’ she said, using all the old phrases. ‘Look here, Anna, my dear,’ she added. ‘Look what a nice card-case my son has brought for us.’

Madame Belov admired the presents, and enthused about her dress material.

Pierre, Natasha, Nikolay, Countess Marya and Denisov had a lot to talk about, but it couldn’t be gone into in front of the old countess, not because they hid things from her, but simply because she was so far out of touch that if you started a conversation while she was there you would have to answer all sorts of irrelevant questions and repeat things constantly, reminding her that so-and-so was dead and somebody else was married, and knowing she wouldn’t remember it this time round. So they just sat there in the usual way taking tea round the samovar in the drawing-room, and Pierre answered the countess’s questions, which were of no use to her and no interest to anybody, by letting her know that Prince Vasily was looking older, and Countess Marya Alexeyevna still remembered them and sent her kind regards, etc.

This kind of conversation, quite unavoidable for all its lack of interest, was kept going all through tea-time. All the adult members of the family had come to sit together at the round tea-table, with Sonya presiding by the samovar. The children with their tutors and governesses had already had their tea, and their voices rang through from the next room. At tea they all sat in their usual places. Nikolay sat at his own little table by the stove, and his tea was handed across. An old borzoi bitch with a grizzled old muzzle and black eyes more prominent than ever – Milka, daughter of the original Milka – lay on a chair beside him. Denisov, with a lot of grey in his curly hair, moustache and side-whiskers, sat next to Countess Marya with his general’s tunic unbuttoned. Pierre sat between his wife and the old countess. He was talking about things he knew the old lady might be interested in and could also understand. He talked about superficial social events and referred to people who had once made up the circle of the old countess’s contemporaries, and once formed a distinct and lively grouping, though they were now for the most part scattered about the world, living out their days like her and gathering up the last ears from crops sown in earlier life. But as far as the old countess was concerned these contemporaries of hers were the only real world of any significance.