War And Peace

The elderly lady, Princess Drubetskoy, came from one of Russia’s best families, but she was impoverished, she had been too long out of society and by this time she had lost all her old contacts. She had come now to make representations and get her only son into the guards. For this reason alone – to see Prince Vasily – she had invited herself to Anna Pavlovna’s party, turned up and sat through the viscount’s story. She was shaken by the prince’s words; her face with its faded beauty flashed with resentment, but only for a moment. She smiled again and tightened her grip on Prince Vasily’s arm.

‘Please listen, Prince,’ she said. ‘I’ve never asked you to do me a favour, and I never shall do so again. I’ve never reminded you how close my father was to you. But now, in God’s name I beseech you, just do this for my son, and I shall always think of you as a benefactor.’ Then, hurriedly, she added, ‘Please don’t be angry, but do promise. I’ve already asked Golitsyn, and he said no. Please be the nice gentleman you always used to be.’ She did her best to smile, though there were tears in her eyes.

‘Papa, we’re going to be late,’ said Princess Hélène from the doorway, her exquisite head looking back over statuesque shoulders.

But influence in society is capital, which must be carefully conserved so it doesn’t run out. Prince Vasily was aware of this, and, realizing that, if he were to petition for everybody who petitioned him, all too soon he would be unable to petition for himself, he rarely made use of his influence. In Princess Drubetskoy’s case, however, her new appeal had given him something akin to a qualm of conscience. She had reminded him of the truth: his earliest progress in the service had been due to her father. Beyond that, he could see from her actions that she was one of those women – especially mothers – who, once they get their teeth into something, are not going to let go until they get their own way, and if they don’t get their own way they are going to go on pestering every minute of every day, and they might even make a scene. This last consideration gave him pause.

‘My dear Anna Mikhaylovna,’ he said, as always unceremoniously and with boredom in his voice, ‘it is virtually impossible for me to do what you want, but to demonstrate my affection for you, and to honour your late father’s memory, I shall achieve the impossible. Your son will be transferred to the guards. Here is my hand on it. Does that satisfy you?’

‘My dear Prince, you are our benefactor! I expected nothing less. I knew you were a good man.’ He tried to get away. ‘Wait a moment. Just one more thing. When he’s in the guards . . .’ She hesitated. ‘You are on good terms with General Kutuzov. Please recommend Boris as one of his aides. Then I can relax, then I . . .’

Prince Vasily smiled. ‘That’s something I can’t promise. You know how besieged Kutuzov has been since he became commander-in-chief. He told me himself that all the ladies in Moscow have got together to offer their children as aides.’

‘No, you must promise. I won’t take no for an answer. You are such a good, kind benefactor . . .’

‘Papa,’ said the beautiful Hélène, exactly as before, ‘we’re going to be late.’

‘Well, I must be off. I bid you goodbye. You see how things are.’

‘Tomorrow, then, you will speak to the Emperor?’

‘Yes indeed, but I can’t promise anything about Kutuzov.’

‘Oh, Basile, you must,’ Anna Mikhaylovna called after him, smiling like a young flirt, which might have suited her in days gone by, but now ill became her scrawny face. She had obviously forgotten her age, and habit had told her to let go with all her ancient womanly wiles. But the moment he had gone her face resumed its former cold, affected expression. She went back to the group where the viscount was still holding forth, and again pretended to listen, but now that she had done what she had come to do she was only waiting for a suitable moment to go home.

‘And what about this latest farce of a coronation in Milan?’ said Anna Pavlovna. ‘And that other farce in Genoa and Lucca with the people coming forward and presenting their petitions to Monsieur Buonaparte. Monsieur Buonaparte sits on a throne and grants nations their petitions! How very charming! Oh, it’s enough to drive me mad! The whole world seems to have gone off its head.’

Prince Andrey smiled and looked Anna Pavlovna straight in the face.

‘This crown is God-given. Woe betide the man who touches it,’ he said (Bonaparte’s words when the crown was placed on his head). ‘They say he looked superb as he spoke those words,’ he added, and he repeated the same words in Italian: ‘Dio mi la dona, guai a qui la tocca.’

‘I only hope,’ Anna Pavlovna went on, ‘that at long last this is the straw that breaks the camel’s back. Really, the European sovereigns cannot continue to put up with this man. He is a threat to everything.’