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Pierre, after all, had not managed to choose a career for
himself in Petersburg, and had been expelled from there for riotous
conduct and sent to Moscow. The story told about him at Count
Rostov's was true. Pierre had taken part in tying a policeman
to a bear. He had now been for some days in Moscow and was staying
as usual at his father's house. Though he expected that the story
of his escapade would be already known in Moscow and that the
ladies about his father- who were never favorably disposed toward
him- would have used it to turn the count against him, he nevertheless
on the day of his arrival went to his father's part of the house.
Entering the drawing room, where the princesses spent most of
their time, he greeted the ladies, two of whom were sitting at
embroidery frames while a third read aloud. It was the eldest
who was reading- the one who had met Anna Mikhaylovna. The two
younger ones were embroidering: both were rosy and pretty and
they differed only in that one had a little mole on her lip which
made her much prettier. Pierre was received as if he were a corpse
or a leper. The eldest princess paused in her reading and silently
stared at him with frightened eyes; the second assumed precisely
the same expression; while the youngest, the one with the mole,
who was of a cheerful and lively disposition, bent over her frame
to hide a smile probably evoked by the amusing scene she foresaw.
She drew her wool down through the canvas and, scarcely able to
refrain from laughing, stooped as if trying to make out the pattern.
"How do you do, cousin?" said Pierre. "You
don't recognize me?"
"I recognize you only too well, too well."
"How is the count? Can I see him?" asked Pierre,
awkwardly as usual, but unabashed.
"The count is suffering physically and mentally, and
apparently you have done your best to increase his mental sufferings."
"Can I see the count?" Pierre again asked.
"Hm.... If you wish to kill him, to kill him outright,
you can see him... Olga, go and see whether Uncle's beef tea is
ready- it is almost time," she added, giving Pierre to understand
that they were busy, and busy making his father comfortable, while
evidently he, Pierre, was only busy causing him annoyance.
Olga went out. Pierre stood looking at the sisters; then he
bowed and said: "Then I will go to my rooms. You will let
me know when I can see him."
And he left the room, followed by the low but ringing laughter
of the sister with the mole.
Next day Prince Vasili had arrived and settled in the count's
house. He sent for Pierre and said to him: "My dear fellow,
if you are going to behave here as you did in Petersburg, you
will end very badly; that is all I have to say to you. The count
is very, very ill, and you must not see him at all."
Since then Pierre had not been disturbed and had spent the
whole time in his rooms upstairs.
When Boris appeared at his door Pierre was pacing up and down
his room, stopping occasionally at a corner to make menacing gestures
at the wall, as if running a sword through an invisible foe, and
glaring savagely over his spectacles, and then again resuming
his walk, muttering indistinct words, shrugging his shoulders
and gesticulating.
"England is done for," said he, scowling and pointing
his finger at someone unseen. "Mr. Pitt, as a traitor to
the nation and to the rights of man, is sentenced to..."
But before Pierre- who at that moment imagined himself to be Napoleon
in person and to have just effected the dangerous crossing of
the Straits of Dover and captured London- could pronounce Pitt's
sentence, he saw a well-built and handsome young officer entering
his room. Pierre paused. He had left Moscow when Boris was a boy
of fourteen, and had quite forgotten him, but in his usual impulsive
and hearty way he took Boris by the hand with a friendly smile.
"Do you remember me?" asked Boris quietly with a
pleasant smile. "I have come with my mother to see the count,
but it seems he is not well."
"Yes, it seems he is ill. People are always disturbing
him," answered Pierre, trying to remember who this young
man was.
Boris felt that Pierre did not recognize him but did not consider
it necessary to introduce himself, and without experiencing the
least embarrassment looked Pierre straight in the face.
"Count Rostov asks you to come to dinner today,"
said he, after a considerable pause which made Pierre feel uncomfortable.
"Ah, Count Rostov!" exclaimed Pierre joyfully. "Then
you are his son, Ilya? Only fancy, I didn't know you at first.
Do you remember how we went to the Sparrow Hills with Madame Jacquot?...
It's such an age..."
"You are mistaken," said Boris deliberately, with
a bold and slightly sarcastic smile. "I am Boris, son of
Princess Anna Mikhaylovna Drubetskaya. Rostov, the father, is
Ilya, and his son is Nicholas. I never knew any Madame Jacquot."
Pierre shook his head and arms as if attacked by mosquitoes
or bees.
"Oh dear, what am I thinking about? I've mixed everything
up. One has so many relatives in Moscow! So you are Boris? Of
course. Well, now we know where we are. And what do you think
of the Boulogne expedition? The English will come off badly, you
know, if Napoleon gets across the Channel. I think the expedition
is quite feasible. If only Villeneuve doesn't make a mess of things!
Boris knew nothing about the Boulogne expedition; he did not
read the papers and it was the first time he had heard Villeneuve's
name.
"We here in Moscow are more occupied with dinner parties
and scandal than with politics," said he in his quiet ironical
tone. "I know nothing about it and have not thought about
it. Moscow is chiefly busy with gossip," he continued. "Just
now they are talking about you and your father."
Pierre smiled in his good-natured way as if afraid for his
companion's sake that the latter might say something he would
afterwards regret. But Boris spoke distinctly, clearly, and dryly,
looking straight into Pierre's eyes.
"Moscow has nothing else to do but gossip," Boris
went on. "Everybody is wondering to whom the count will leave
his fortune, though he may perhaps outlive us all, as I sincerely
hope he will..."
"Yes, it is all very horrid," interrupted Pierre,
"very horrid."
Pierre was still afraid that this officer might inadvertently
say something disconcerting to himself.
"And it must seem to you," said Boris flushing slightly,
but not changing his tone or attitude, "it must seem to you
that everyone is trying to get something out of the rich man?"
"So it does," thought Pierre.
"But I just wish to say, to avoid misunderstandings,
that you are quite mistaken if you reckon me or my mother among
such people. We are very poor, but for my own part at any rate,
for the very reason that your father is rich, I don't regard myself
as a relation of his, and neither I nor my mother would ever ask
or take anything from him."
For a long time Pierre could not understand, but when he did,
he jumped up from the sofa, seized Boris under the elbow in his
quick, clumsy way, and, blushing far more than Boris, began to
speak with a feeling of mingled shame and vexation.
"Well, this is strange! Do you suppose I... who could
think?... I know very well..."
But Boris again interrupted him.
"I am glad I have spoken out fully. Perhaps you did not
like it? You must excuse me," said he, putting Pierre at
ease instead of being put at ease by him, "but I hope I have
not offended you. I always make it a rule to speak out... Well,
what answer am I to take? Will you come to dinner at the Rostovs'?"
And Boris, having apparently relieved himself of an onerous
duty and extricated himself from an awkward situation and placed
another in it, became quite pleasant again.
"No, but I say," said Pierre, calming down, "you
are a wonderful fellow! What you have just said is good, very
good. Of course you don't know me. We have not met for such a
long time... not since we were children. You might think that
I... I understand, quite understand. I could not have done it
myself, I should not have had the courage, but it's splendid.
I am very glad to have made your acquaintance. It's queer,"
he added after a pause, "that you should have suspected me!"
He began to laugh. "Well, what of it! I hope we'll get better
acquainted," and he pressed Boris' hand. "Do you know,
I have not once been in to see the count. He has not sent for
me.... I am sorry for him as a man, but what can one do?"
"And so you think Napoleon will manage to get an army
across?" asked Boris with a smile.
Pierre saw that Boris wished to change the subject, and being
of the same mind he began explaining the advantages and disadvantages
of the Boulogne expedition.
A footman came in to summon Boris- the princess was going.
Pierre, in order to make Boris' better acquaintance, promised
to come to dinner, and warmly pressing his hand looked affectionately
over his spectacles into Boris' eyes. After he had gone Pierre
continued pacing up and down the room for a long time, no longer
piercing an imaginary foe with his imaginary sword, but smiling
at the remembrance of that pleasant, intelligent, and resolute
young man.
As often happens in early youth, especially to one who leads
a lonely life, he felt an unaccountable tenderness for this young
man and made up his mind that they would be friends.
Prince Vasili saw the princess off. She held a handkerchief
to her eyes and her face was tearful.
"It is dreadful, dreadful!" she was saying, "but
cost me what it may I shall do my duty. I will come and spend
the night. He must not be left like this. Every moment is precious.
I can't think why his nieces put it off. Perhaps God will help
me to find a way to prepare him!... Adieu, Prince! May God support
you..."
"Adieu, ma bonne," answered Prince Vasili turning
away from her.
"Oh, he is in a dreadful state," said the mother
to her son when they were in the carriage. "He hardly recognizes
anybody."
"I don't understand, Mamma- what is his attitude to Pierre?"
asked the son.
"The will will show that, my dear; our fate also depends
on it."
"But why do you expect that he will leave us anything?"
"Ah, my dear! He is so rich, and we are so poor!"
"Well, that is hardly a sufficient reason, Mamma..."
"Oh, Heaven! How ill he is!" exclaimed the mother.
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