War and peace ( Constance Garnett-1900)

‘It’s this, my dear—why, what is this mess on you here?’ she said, pointing to his waistcoat. ‘It’s the saute, most likely,’ she added, smiling. ‘It’s this, my dear, I want some money.’ Her face became gloomy

‘Ah, little countess! . . .’ And the count fidgeted about, pulling out his pocket-book.

‘I want a great deal, count. I want five hundred roubles.’ And taking out her cambric handkerchief she wiped her husband’s waistcoat.

‘This minute, this minute. Hey, who’s there?’ he shouted, as men only shout who are certain that those they call will run headlong at their summons. ‘Send Mitenka to me!’

Mitenka, the young man of noble family who had been brought up in the count’s house, and now had charge of all his money affairs, walked softly into the room.

‘Here, my dear boy,’ said the count to the young man. who came up respectfully. ‘Bring me,’ he thought a moment, ‘yes, seven hundred roubles, yes. And mind, don’t bring me such torn and dirty notes as Iasi time; nice ones now, for the countess.’ (

‘Yes, Mitenka, clean ones, please,’ said the countess with a depressed , sigh. i

WAR AND *PEACE 49

‘Your excellency, when do you desire me to get the money?’ said Mitenka. ‘Your honour ought to know . . . But don’t trouble,’ he added, noticing that the count was beginning to breathe rapidly and heavily, which was always the sign of approaching anger. ‘I was forgetting . . . This minute do you desire me to bring them?’

‘Yes, yes, just so, bring them. Give them to the countess. What a treasure that Mitenka is,’ added the count, smiling, when the young man had gone out. ‘He doesn’t know the meaning of impossible. That’s a thing I can’t bear. Everything’s possible.’

‘Ah, money, count, money, what a lot of sorrow it causes in the world!’ said the countess. ‘This money I am in great need of.’

‘You are a terrible spendthrift, little countess, we all know,’ said the count, and kissing his wife’s hand he went away again to his own room.

When Anna Mihalovna came back from the Bezuhovs’, the money was already on the countess’s little table, all in new notes, under her pocket- handkerchief. Anna Mihalovna noticed that the countess was fluttered about something.

‘Well, my dear?’ queried the countess.

‘Ah, he is in a terrible condition! One would not recognise him, he is so ill, so ill; I was there only a minute, and did not say two words.’

‘Annette, for God’s sake don’t refuse me,’ the countess said suddenly with a blush, which was strangely incongruous with her elderly, thin, and dignified face, taking the money from under her handkerchief. Anna Mihalovna instantly grasped the situation, and was already bending over to embrace the countess at the appropriate moment.

‘This is for Boris, from me, for his equipment . . .’

Anna Mihalovna was already embracing her and weeping. The countess wept too. They wept because they were friends, and because they were soft-hearted, and that they, who had been friends in youth, should have to think of anything so base as money, and that their youth was over. . . . But the tears of both were sweet to them. . . .

XV

Countess Rostov, with her daughters and the greater number of the guests, was sitting in the drawing-room. The count led the gentlemen of the party to his room, calling their attention to his connoisseur’s collection of Turkish pipes. Now and then he went out and inquired, had she come yet? They were waiting for Marya Dmitryevna Ahrosimov, known in society as le terrible dragon, a lady who owed her renown not to her wealth or her rank, but to her mental directness and her open, unconventional behaviour. Marya Dmitryevna was known to the imperial family; she was known to all Moscow and all Petersburg, and both cities, while they marvelled at her, laughed in their sleeves at her rudeness, and told good stories about her, nevertheless, all without exception respected and feared her.

In the count’s room, full of smoke, there was talk of the war, which nad been declared in a manifesto, and of the levies of troops. The manifesto no one had yet read, but every one knew of its appearance. The count was sitting on an ottoman with a man smoking and talking on each side of him. The count himself was neither smoking nor talking,, but, with his head cocked first on one side and then on the other, gazed; with evident satisfaction at the smokers, and listened to the argument he had got up between his two neighbours.