War and Peace - Leo Tolstoy [489]
“You make no grace to anyone,” said Julie Drubetskoy, gathering and pressing together a little pile of shredded lint with her slender, beringed fingers.
Julie was preparing to leave Moscow the next day and was giving a farewell soirée.
“Bezukhov est ridicule, but he’s so kind, so sweet. What’s the pleasure to be so caustique?”
“A fine!” said a young man in a militia uniform, whom Julie called “mon chevalier,” and who was going to Nizhny with her.
In Julie’s circle, as in many other circles in Moscow, it had been decided to speak only Russian, and those who mistakenly spoke a French word had to pay a fine for the benefit of the donation committee.
“Another fine for the Gallicism,” said a Russian writer who was in the drawing room. “One doesn’t say ‘the pleasure to be.’”
“You make no grace to anyone,” Julie went on to the militiaman, ignoring the writer’s comment. “I plead guilty to the caustique,” she said, “and will pay, and I’m prepared to pay more for the pleasure to tell you the truth, but I can’t answer for the Gallicisms,” she turned to the writer. “I have neither the money nor the time, as Prince Golitsyn does, to take a tutor and study Russian. Ah, here he is,” said Julie. “Quand on…*455 No, no,” she turned to the militiaman, “you won’t catch me. When one speaks of the sun, one sees its rays,” said the hostess, smiling amiably at Pierre. “We were just talking about you,” said Julie, with a society woman’s aptitude for lying freely. “We were saying that your regiment would probably be better than Mamonov’s.”
“Ah, don’t speak to me about my regiment,” replied Pierre, kissing the hostess’s hand and sitting down beside her. “I’m so sick of it!”
“But surely you’re going to command it yourself?” said Julie, exchanging a sly and mocking glance with the militiaman.
In Pierre’s presence, the militiaman was no longer so caustique, and his face showed perplexity over the meaning of Julie’s smile. Despite his absentmindedness and good nature, the person of Pierre immediately put a stop to all attempts at mockery in his presence.
“No,” replied Pierre, laughing and looking over his big, fat body. “I’d be much too easy a target for the French, and I’m afraid I wouldn’t be able to get on a horse.”
Among the persons touched upon in conversation in Julie’s circle there happened to be the Rostovs.
“People say things are very bad with them,” said Julie. “He’s so muddleheaded—the count himself. The Razumovskys wanted to buy their house and the estate near Moscow, and it’s still dragging on. He’s asking too much.”
“No, it seems the sale will go through one of these days,” someone said. “Though it’s mad to buy anything in Moscow now.”
“Why?” asked Julie. “Do you really think Moscow’s in danger?”
“Why are you leaving, then?”
“I? What a strange question. I’m leaving because…well, because everybody’s leaving, and anyway I’m not Joan of Arc or some sort of Amazon.”
“Well, yes, yes, give me some more rags.”
“If he’s able to manage the deal, he’ll be able to pay off his debts,” the militiaman went on about Rostov.
“A kind old man, but a very pauvre sire.†456 And why have they stayed so long? They’ve been wanting to go to the country for a long time. Natalie seems to be well now?” Julie asked Pierre with a sly smile.
“They’re waiting for their younger son,” said Pierre. “He joined Obolensky’s Cossacks and went to Belaya Tserkov. The regiment’s being formed there. But now they’ve transferred him to my regiment and are expecting him any day. The count has wanted to leave for a long time, but the countess won’t agree to leave Moscow for anything until their son arrives.”
“I saw them two days ago at the Arkharovs’. Natalie has grown pretty and cheerful again. She sang a romance. How easily some people get over things!”
“Get over what?” Pierre asked with displeasure. Julie smiled.
“You know, Count, knights like you are found only in the novels of Mme de Souza.”
“What knights? Why?” Pierre asked, blushing.
“Well, enough, dear count, c’est la fable de tout Moscou. Je vous admire, ma parole