战争与和平(上)-第22章

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ther—come　to　look　at　their　master　making　merry。
“Our　little　father！　An　eagle　he　is！”　the　old　nurse　said　out　loud　at　one　door。
The　count　danced　well　and　knew　that　he　did；　but　his　partner　could　not　dance　at　all；　and　did　not　care　about　dancing　well。　Her　portly　figure　stood　erect；　with　her　mighty　arms　hanging　by　her　side　（she　had　handed　her　reticule　to　the　countess）。　It　was　only　her　stern；　but　comely　face　that　danced。　What　was　expressed　by　the　whole　round　person　of　the　count；　was　expressed　by　Marya　Dmitryevna　in　her　more　and　more　beaming　countenance　and　puckered　nose。　While　the　count；　with　greater　and　greater　expenditure　of　energy；　enchanted　the　spectators　by　the　unexpectedness　of　the　nimble　pirouettes　and　capers　of　his　supple　legs；　Marya　Dmitryevna　with　the　slightest　effort　in　the　movement　of　her　shoulders　or　curving　of　her　arms；　when　they　turned　or　marked　the　time　with　their　feet；　produced　no　less　impression　from　the　contrast；　which　everyone　appreciated；　with　her　portliness　and　her　habitual　severity　of　demeanour。　The　dance　grew　more　and　more　animated。　The　vis…à…vis　could　not　obtain　one　moment’s　attention；　and　did　not　attempt　to　do　so。　All　attention　was　absorbed　by　the　count　and　Marya　Dmitryevna。　Natasha　pulled　at　the　sleeve　or　gown　of　every　one　present；　urging　them　to　look　at　papa；　though　they　never　took　their　eyes　off　the　dancers。　In　the　pauses　in　the　dance　the　count　drew　a　deep　breath；　waved　his　hands　and　shouted　to　the　musician　to　play　faster。　More　and　more　quickly；　more　and　more　nimbly　the　count　pirouetted；　turning　now　on　his　toes　and　now　on　his　heels；　round　Marya　Dmitryevna。　At　last；　twisting　his　lady　round　to　her　place；　he　executed　the　last　steps；　kicking　his　supple　legs　up　behind　him；　and　bowing　his　perspiring　head　and　smiling　face；　with　a　round　sweep　of　his　right　arm；　amidst　a　thunder　of　applause　and　laughter；　in　which　Natasha’s　laugh　was　loudest。　Both　partners　stood　still；　breathing　heavily；　and　mopping　their　faces　with　their　batiste　handkerchiefs。
“That’s　how　they　used　to　dance　in　our　day；　ma　chère；　said　the　count。
“Bravo；　Daniel　Cooper！”　said　Marya　Dmitryevna；　tucking　up　her　sleeves　and　drawing　a　deep；　prolonged　breath。


Chapter　18
WHILE　IN　THE　ROSTOVS’　HALL　they　were　dancing　the　sixth　anglaise；　while　the　weary　orchestra　played　wrong　notes；　and　the　tired　footmen　and　cooks　were　getting　the　supper；　Count　Bezuhov　had　just　had　his　sixth　stroke。　The　doctors　declared　that　there　was　no　hope　of　recovery；　the　sick　man　received　absolution　and　the　sacrament　while　unconscious。　Preparations　were　being　made　for　administering　extreme　unction；　and　the　house　was　full　of　the　bustle　and　thrill　of　suspense　usual　at　such　moments。　Outside　the　house　undertakers　were　crowding　beyond　the　gates；　trying　to　escape　the　notice　of　the　carriages　that　drove　up；　but　eagerly　anticipating　a　good　order　for　the　count’s　funeral。　The　governor　of　Moscow；　who　had　been　constantly　sending　his　adjutants　to　inquire　after　the　count’s　condition；　came　himself　that　evening　to　say　good…bye　to　the　renowned　grandee　of　Catherine’s　court；　Count　Bezuhov。
The　magnificent　reception…room　was　full。　Every　one　stood　up　respectfully　when　the　governor；　after　being　half　an　hour　alone　with　the　sick　man；　came　out　of　the　sick…room。　Bestowing　scanty　recognition　on　the　bows　with　which　he　was　received；　he　tried　to　escape　as　quickly　as　possible　from　the　gaze　of　the　doctors；　ecclesiastical　personages；　and　relations。　Prince　Vassily；　who　had　grown　paler　and　thinner　during　the　last　few　days；　escorted　the　governor　out；　and　softly　repeated　something　to　him　several　times　over。
After　seeing　the　governor；　Prince　Vassily　sat　down　on　a　chair　in　the　hall　alone；　crossing　one　leg　high　over　the　other；　leaning　his　elbow　on　his　knee；　and　covering　his　eyes　with　his　hand。　After　sitting　so　for　some　time　he　got　up；　and　with　steps　more　hurried　than　his　wont；　he　crossed　the　long　corridor；　looking　round　him　with　frightened　eyes；　and　went　to　the　back　part　of　the　house　to　the　apartments　of　the　eldest　princess。
The　persons　he　had　left　in　the　dimly　lighted　reception…room；　next　to　the　sick…room；　talked　in　broken　whispers　among　themselves；　pausing；　and　looking　round　with　eyes　full　of　suspense　and　inquiry　whenever　the　door　that　led　into　the　dying　man’s　room　creaked　as　some　one　went　in　or　came　out。
“Man’s　limitation；”　said　a　little　man；　an　ecclesiastic　of　some　sort；　to　a　lady；　who　was　sitting　near　him　listening　na？vely　to　his　words—“his　limitation　is　fixed；　there　is　no　overstepping　it。”
“I　wonder　if　it　won’t　be　late　for　extreme　unction？”　inquired　the　lady；　using　his　clerical　title；　and　apparently　having　no　opinion　of　her　own　on　the　matter。
“It　is　a　great　mystery；　ma’am；”　answered　the　clerk；　passing　his　hands　over　his　bald　head；　on　which　lay　a　few　tresses　of　carefully　combed；　half　grey　hair。
“Who　was　that？　was　it　the　governor　himself？”　they　were　asking　at　the　other　end　of　the　room。　“What　a　young…looking　man！”
“And　he’s　over　sixty！。　…　What；　do　they　say；　the　count　does　not　know　any　one？　Do　they　mean　to　give　extreme　unction？”
“I　knew　a　man　who　received　extreme　unction　seven　times。”
The　second　princess　came　out　of　the　sick…room　with　tearful　eyes；　and　sat　down　beside　Doctor　Lorrain；　who　was　sitting　in　a　graceful　pose　under　the　portrait　of　Catherine；　with　his　elbow　on　the　table。
“Very　fine；”　said　the　doctor　in　reply　to　a　question　about　the　weather；　“very　fine；　princess；　and　besides；　at　Moscow；　one　might　suppose　oneself　in　the　country。”
“Might　one　not？”　said　the　princess；　sighing。　“So　may　he　have　something　to　drink？”　Lorrain　thought　a　moment。
“He　has　taken　his　medicine？”
“Yes。”
The　doctor　looked　at　his　memoranda。
“Take　a　glass　of　boiled　water　and　put　in　a　pinch”　（he　showed　with　his　delicate　fingers　what　was　meant　by　a　pinch）　“of　cream　of　tartar。”
“There　has　never　been　a　case；”　said　the　German　doctor　to　the　adjutant；　speaking　broken　Russian；　“of　recovery　after　having　a　third　stroke。”
“And　what　a　vigorous　man　he　was！”　said　the　adjutant。　“And　to　whom　will　his　great　wealth　go？”　he　added　in　a　whisper。
“Candidates　will　be　found；”　the　German　replied；　smiling。　Every　one　looked　round　again　at　the　door；　it　creaked；　and　the　second　princess　having　made　the　drink　according　to　Lorrain’s　direction；　carried　it　into　the　sick…room。　The　German　doctor　went　up　to　Lorrain。
“Can　it　drag　on　till　to…morrow　morning？”　asked　the　German；　with　a　vile　French　accent。
Lorrain；　with　compressed　lips　and　a　stern　face；　moved　his　finger　before　his　nose　to　express　a　negative。
“To…night；　not　later；”　he　said　softly；　and　with　a　decorous　smile　of　satisfaction　at　being　able　to　understand　and　to　express　the　exact　position　of　the　sick　man；　he　walked　away。
Meanwhile　Prince　Vassily　had　opened　the　door　of　the　princess’s　room。
It　was　half　dark　in　the　room；　there　were　only　two　lamps　burning　before　the　holy　pictures；　and　there　was　a　sweet　perfume　of　incense　and　flowers。　The　whole　room　was　furnished　with　miniature　furniture；　little　sideboards；　small　bookcases；　and　small　tables。　Behind　a　screen　could　be　seen　the　white　coverings　of　a　high　feather…bed。　A　little　dog　barked。
“Ah；　is　that　you；　mon　cousin？”
She　got　up　and　smoothed　her　hair；　which　was　always；　even　now；　so　extraordinarily　smooth　that　it　seemed　as　though　made　out　of　one　piece　with　her　head　and　covered　with　varnish。
“Has　anything　happened？”　she　asked。　“I　am　in　continual　dread。”
“Nothing；　everything　is　unchanged。　I　have　only　come　to　have　a　little　talk　with　you；　Katish；　about　business；”　said　the　prince；　sitting　down　wearily　in　the　low　chair　from　which　she　had　just　risen。　“How　warm　it　is　here；　though；”　he　said。　“Come；　sit　here；　let　us　talk。”
“I　wondered　whether　anything　had　happened；”　said　the　princess；　and　with　her　stonily　severe　expression　unchanged；　she　sat　down　opposite　the　prince；　preparing　herself　to　listen。　“I　have　been　trying　to　get　some　sleep；　mon　cousin；　but　I　can’t。”
“Well；　my　dear？”　said　Prince　Vassily；　taking　the　princess’s　hand；　and　bending　it　downwards　as　his　habit　was。
It　was　plain　that　this　“well？”　referred　to　much　that　they　both　comprehended　without　mentioning　it　in　words。
The　princess；　with　her　spare；　upright　figure；　so　disproportionately　long　in　the　body；　looked　straight　at　the　prince