War And Peace

‘And how is he, Prince Vasily? Getting on a bit?’ inquired the countess. ‘I haven’t seen him since our theatricals at the Rumyantsevs’. He must have forgotten me by now. He flirted with me, you know.’ She smiled at the memory of it.

‘He hasn’t changed,’ answered Anna Mikhaylovna. ‘So approachable, so full of generosity. All those honours haven’t gone to his head. “I regret that I can do so little for you, my dear Princess,” he said, “but do tell me what you want.” Yes, he’s a splendid man, and he knows that blood’s thicker than water. But Natalie, you know how much I love my son. I don’t know what I wouldn’t do to make him happy. But now my affairs are in such a bad state,’ Anna Mikhaylovna went on, lowering her voice with great sadness in her face. ‘I’m in the most dreadful situation. My wretched lawsuit is gobbling up everything I have, and it’s not getting anywhere. Can you imagine, I literally haven’t got a penny to my name, and I have no idea how to get Boris kitted out.’ She took out her handkerchief and began to weep. ‘I must have five hundred roubles, and all I have is one twenty-five rouble note. I’m in such a desperate situation . . . My only hope now is Count Kirill Bezukhov. If he won’t agree to support his godson – you did know he was Boris’s godfather, didn’t you? – and give him a small allowance, all my efforts will have been in vain. I shan’t be able to kit him out.’

The countess, who could feel her own eyes filling with tears, thought things over but said nothing.

‘I often think . . . perhaps it’s sinful to do so,’ said the princess, ‘but I do often think: here he is, Count Kirill, living all alone . . . that huge fortune . . . and what is he living for? Life is a burden to him, and my Boris is only just beginning his life.’

‘I’m sure he’ll leave something to Boris,’ said the countess.

‘Heaven knows, my dear! These wealthy grandees are so selfish. Anyway I’m going to see him at once with Boris, and I shall tell him straight. People can think what they want. I really don’t care when my son’s fate depends on it.’ The princess got to her feet. ‘It’s two o’clock, and you dine at four. I can just get there and back.’

And so, like a Petersburg businesswoman who knows how to manage her time, Anna Mikhaylovna sent for her son, and went out with him into the hall.

‘Goodbye, my dear,’ she said to the countess, who was seeing her off. ‘Wish me luck,’ she whispered so her son couldn’t hear.

‘You’re off to see Count Kirill, my dear?’ said the count, coming from the dining-room into the hall. ‘If he’s feeling better, invite Pierre to dine with us. He’s been here lots of times. Used to dance with the children. Make sure you invite him, my dear. We’ll see what happens, but I think Taras will surpass himself this time. He says Count Orlov²² has never had a dinner like the one we’re having tonight.’

CHAPTER 12

‘Boris, my dear,’ said Anna Mikhaylovna as Countess Rostov’s carriage took them along the straw-covered street and turned into the wide courtyard of Count Kirill Bezukhov’s house. ‘Boris, my dear,’ said the mother, freeing her hand from her old mantle and laying it on her son’s hand with a timid caress, ‘be affectionate and be attentive. Count Kirill is your godfather, when all’s said and done, and your future depends on him. Remember that, my dear, and do be nice to him. You know you can.’

‘If I could be sure that anything would come of this other than humiliation . . .’ her son began coldly. ‘But I did promise, and I’m doing it for your sake.’ Despite the fact someone’s carriage was standing at the entrance, the porter, studying the mother and son (who had walked straight in unannounced through the glass vestibule between two rows of statues in niches), and eyeing the old mantle suspiciously, asked who they wanted to see, the princesses or the count. On hearing that they wanted the count, he said that his Excellency was worse today and could not receive any visitors.

‘We may as well go,’ the son said in French.

‘My dear, please,’ pleaded his mother, touching her son’s hand again, as though the contact might either pacify him or rouse him. Boris made no response, other than looking quizzically at his mother, and he didn’t take off his overcoat.

‘My good man,’ said Anna Mikhaylovna to the porter in her sweetest tone, ‘I know Count Kirill is very ill . . . that’s why I’m here . . . I’m a relative . . . I shall not disturb him, my good man . . . I need only see Prince Vasily Kuragin, and I know he’s staying here. Be so good as to announce us.’

The porter scowled, pulled a cord that rang upstairs and turned away.

‘Princess Drubetskoy to see Prince Vasily Kuragin,’ he called to a footman in knee-breeches, slippers and a swallowtail coat, who had run across the landing and was looking down.

The mother straightened the folds of her dyed silk gown, checked herself in the full-length Venetian mirror on the wall and then walked jauntily up the carpeted staircase in her shabby shoes.