War And Peace

‘Take my situation, Pyotr Nikolaich. If I were in the cavalry, I would get two hundred roubles every four months at the most, even at the rank of lieutenant, whereas now I get two hundred and thirty,’ he explained with a gleeful, friendly smile, looking at Shinshin and the count as though his personal success would obviously and always be the one thing everyone else would wish to advance. ‘And another thing, Pyotr Nikolaich – by transferring to the guards, I shall stand out,’ Berg persisted, ‘and there are many more vacancies in the foot guards. And just imagine how much better off I’ll be on two hundred and thirty roubles. I’ll be able to save and send something home to my father.’ He released a smoke-ring.

‘There is a balance in all things. A German knows how to skin a flint, as the Russian proverb says,’ said Shinshin, switching his pipe to the other side of his mouth and winking at the count.

The count roared with laughter. Other guests, seeing that Shinshin was in charge of the conversation, came over to listen. Oblivious to any ridicule or indifference, Berg rambled on about his transfer to the guards and how he was now one step ahead of his old army colleagues, how easily a company commander could get killed in wartime, and he would be next in line and might easily become a commander, and how popular he was with everyone in the regiment, and how pleased his father was with him . . . Berg was revelling in all of this, and it never seemed to occur to him that other people might have their own interests too. But everything he said was so pleasant, he was so old beyond his years and his youthful egoism seemed so open and ingenuous that his listeners were all disarmed.

‘Well, my dear chap, infantry or cavalry, you’ll always get on. That’s my prediction,’ said Shinshin, patting him on the shoulder, and taking his feet down from the pouffe. Berg beamed with pleasure. The count and all his guests then trooped out into the drawing-room.

It was that time just before a formal dinner when the assembled guests do not get involved in lengthy conversations, because they are expecting a summons to hors d’œuvres in the dining-room, while at the same time they feel they ought to keep moving about and saying something, to show that they are not over-anxious to get to the table. Host and hostess keep glancing at the doors and occasionally at one another. The visitors try to guess from these glances who or what may be holding things up – some important relative late in arriving, or some dish not yet ready?

Pierre had arrived just in time for dinner, and was sprawling awkwardly in mid-drawing-room in the first chair he had come across, thus blocking everyone’s way. The countess tried to get him talking, but he stared round naively through his spectacles as though he were looking for someone, and answered all her questions in monosyllables. He was an embarrassment, and only he was unaware of it. Most of the guests, knowing the bear story, looked curiously at this great big, stout, inoffensive person, at a loss to think how such a bumbling, unassuming young man could ever have played such a prank on a policeman.

‘When did you arrive, just recently?’ the countess asked him.

‘Yes, madame.’

‘I don’t suppose you’ve seen my husband.’

‘No, madame.’ He smiled – just the wrong thing to do.

‘I believe you were in Paris until recently? Very interesting, I imagine.’

‘Yes.’

The countess exchanged glances with Anna Mikhaylovna, who saw that she was being asked to take the young man under her wing, so she sat down next to him and began talking about his father. Again he responded in monosyllables. The other guests were busy chatting amongst themselves. ‘The Razumovskys . . . It was so charming . . . You’re too kind . . . Countess Apraksin . . .’ – the conversation came from all sides. The countess got up and went into the reception hall. ‘Marya Dmitriyevna?’ she could be heard asking from there.

‘The very same,’ a rough woman’s voice was heard to reply, and Marya Dmitriyevna walked into the room. All the girls and even the ladies, except the very old ones, got to their feet. Marya Dmitriyevna paused in the doorway and drew herself up to her full height. A plump woman of fifty or so, she held her head high with all its grey curls, contemplated the guests and then carefully arranged the wide sleeves of her gown as though rolling them up for action. Marya Dmitriyevna always used Russian.

‘Greetings to the name-day lady and her children,’ she boomed in her deep voice that drowned all other sounds. ‘Now, you old sinner,’ she went on, turning to the count who was kissing her hand, ‘I imagine you’re tired of Moscow – nowhere to run the dogs? Well, sir, there’s not much you can do. These fledglings will soon be grown up . . .’ She pointed to the girls. ‘Like it or not, you’ll have to find husbands for them.’