War and Peace - Leo Tolstoy [20]
“I’m very glad I didn’t go to the ambassador’s,” said Prince Ippolit, “it’s boring…A wonderful evening. Wonderful, isn’t it so?”
“They say the ball will be very nice,” replied the princess, her slightly mustached lip pulling upwards. “All the beautiful society women will be there.”
“Not all, since you won’t be there; not all,” said Prince Ippolit, laughing joyfully, and, snatching the shawl from the footman, even shoving him, he began putting it on the princess. Either from awkwardness or intentionally (no one would have been able to tell), he was a long while lowering his arms, even when the shawl was already put on, and it was as if he was embracing the young woman.
Graciously, but still smiling, she withdrew, turned, and looked at her husband. Prince Andrei’s eyes were shut, which made him look tired and sleepy.
“Are you ready, madame?” he asked his wife, looking past her.
Prince Ippolit hastily put on his redingote, which, in the new style, hung lower than his heels, and, tangling himself in it, ran to the porch after the princess, whom the footman was helping into the carriage.
“Princesse, au revoir,” he cried, his tongue getting as tangled as his feet.
The princess, picking up her dress, was settling herself in the darkness of the carriage; her husband was straightening his sword; Prince Ippolit, on the pretext of being of service, got in everyone’s way.
“Ex-cuse me, sir,” Prince Andrei, with dry unpleasantness, addressed himself in Russian to Prince Ippolit, who was standing in his way.
“I’ll be waiting for you, Pierre,” the same voice of Prince Andrei said gently and tenderly.
The postilion touched up the horses, and the wheels of the carriage rumbled. Prince Ippolit laughed fitfully, standing on the porch and waiting for the viscount, whom he had promised to take home.
“Eh, bien, mon cher, votre petite princesse est très bien, très bien,” said the viscount, getting into the carriage with Ippolit. “Mais très bien.” He kissed the tips of his fingers. “Et tout-à-fait française.”*68
Ippolit laughed with a snort.
“Et savez-vous que vous êtes terrible avec votre petit air innocent,” the viscount continued. “Je plains le pauvre mari, ce petit officier, qui se donne des airs de prince régnant.”†69
Ippolit snorted again and said through his laughter:
“Et vous disiez, que les dames russes ne valaient pas les dames françaises. Il faut savoir s’y prendre.”‡70
Pierre, arriving first, went to Prince Andrei’s study, being a familiar of the house, and, as was his habit, at once lay down on the sofa, took the first book that caught his eye from the shelf (it was Caesar’s Commentaries),21 and, leaning on his elbow, began reading it from the middle.
“What have you done to mademoiselle Scherer? She’ll be quite ill now,” said Prince Andrei, coming into his study and rubbing his small white hands.
Pierre swung his whole body so that the sofa creaked, turned his animated face to Prince Andrei, smiled, and waved his hand.
“No, that abbé is very interesting, only he has the wrong notion of things…In my opinion, eternal peace is possible, but I don’t know how to say it…Only it’s not through political balance…”
Prince Andrei was obviously not interested in these abstract conversations.
“Mon cher, you can’t go saying what you think everywhere. Well, so, have you finally decided on anything? Are you going to be a horse guard or a diplomat?” Prince Andrei asked after a moment’s silence.
Pierre sat up on the sofa with both legs tucked under him.
“Can you imagine, I still don’t know. I don’t like either of them.”
“But you must decide on something. Your father’s waiting.”
At the age of ten, Pierre had been sent abroad with an abbé-tutor and had remained there until he was twenty. When he returned to Moscow, his father dismissed the abbé and said to the young man: “Go to Petersburg now, look around, and choose.