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IN THE YEAR 1811 there was living in Moscow a French doctor called Metivier,
who was rapidly coming into fashion. He was a very tall, handsome man, polite as
only a Frenchman is, and was said by every one in Moscow to be an
extraordinarily clever doctor. He was received in the very best houses, not
merely as a doctor, but as an equal.
Prince Nikolay Andreitch had always ridiculed medicine, but of late he had by
Mademoiselle Bourienne's advice allowed this doctor to see him, and had become
accustomed to his visits. Metivier used to see the old prince twice a
week.
On St. Nikolay's day, the name-day of the old prince, all Moscow was driving
up to the approach of his house, but he gave orders for no one to be admitted to
see him. Only a few guests, of whom he gave a list to Princess Marya, were to be
invited to dinner.
Metivier, who arrived in the morning with his felicitations, thought himself
as the old prince's doctor entitled to forcer la consigne, as he told
Princess Marya, and went in to the prince. It so happened that on that morning
of his name-day the old prince was in one of his very worst tempers. He had
spent the whole morning wandering about the house, finding fault with every one,
and affecting not to understand what was said to him and to be misunderstood by
everybody. Princess Marya knew that mood well from subdued and fretful
grumbling, which usually found vent in a violent outburst of fury, and as though
facing a cocked and loaded gun, she went all the morning in expectation of an
explosion. The morning passed off fairly well, till the doctor's arrival. After
admitting the doctor, Princess Marya sat down with a book in the drawing-room
near the door, where she could hear all that passed in the prince's study.
At first she heard Metivier's voice alone, then her father's voice, then both
voices began talking at once. The door flew open, and in the doorway she saw the
handsome, terrified figure of Metivier with his shock of black hair, and the old
prince in a skull-cap and dressing-gown, his face hideous with rage and his eyes
lowered.
“You don't understand,” screamed the old prince, “but I do! French spy, slave
of Bonaparte, spy, out of my house—away, I tell you!” And he slammed the door.
Metivier, shrugging his shoulders, went up to Mademoiselle Bourienne, who ran
out of the next room at the noise.
“The prince is not quite well, bile and rush of blood to the head. Calm
yourself, I will look in to-morrow,” said Metivier; and putting his fingers to
his lips he hurried off.
Through the door could be heard steps shuffling in slippers and shouts:
“Spies, traitors, traitors everywhere! Not a minute of peace in my own
house!”
After Metivier's departure the old prince sent for his daughter, and the
whole fury of his passion spent itself on her. She was to blame for the spy's
having been admitted to see him. Had not he told her, told her to make a list,
and that those not on the list were on no account to be admitted? Why then had
that scoundrel been shown up? She was to blame for everything. With her he could
not have a minute of peace, could not die in peace, he told her.
“No, madame, we must part, we must part, I tell you! I can put up with no
more,” he said, and went out of the room. And as though afraid she might find
some comfort, he turned back and trying to assume an air of calmness, he added:
“And don't imagine that I have said this in a moment of temper; no, I'm quite
calm and I have thought it well over, and it shall be so—you shall go away, and
find some place for yourself!…” But he could not restrain himself, and with the
vindictive fury which can only exist where a man loves, obviously in anguish, he
shook his fists and screamed at her: “Ah! if some fool would marry her!” He
slammed the door, sent for Mademoiselle Bourienne, and subsided into his
study.
At two o'clock the six persons he had selected arrived to dinner. Those
guests—the celebrated Count Rastoptchin, Prince Lopuhin and his nephew, General
Tchatrov, an old comrade of the prince's in the field, and of the younger
generation Pierre and Boris Drubetskoy were awaiting him in the drawing-room.
Boris, who had come on leave to Moscow shortly before, had been anxious to be
presented to Prince Nikolay Andreitch, and had succeeded in so far ingratiating
himself in his favour, that the old prince made in his case an exception from
his usual rule of excluding all young unmarried men from his house.
The prince did not receive what is called “society,” but his house was the
centre of a little circle into which—though it was not talked of much in the
town—it was more flattering to be admitted than anywhere else. Boris had grasped
that fact a week previously, when he heard Rastoptchin tell the
commander-in-chief of Moscow, who had invited him to dine on St. Nikolay's day,
that he could not accept his invitation.
“On that day I always go to pay my devotions to the relics of Prince Nikolay
Andreitch.”
“Oh yes, yes…” assented the commander-in-chief. “How is he?…”
The little party assembled before dinner in the old-fashioned, lofty
drawing-room, with its old furniture, was like the solemn meeting of some legal
council board.
All sat silent, or if they spoke, spoke in subdued tones. Prince Nikolay
Andreitch came in, serious and taciturn. Princess Marya seemed meeker and more
timid than usual. The guests showed no inclination to address their conversation
to her, for they saw that she had no thought for what they were saying. Count
Rastoptchin maintained the conversation alone, relating the latest news of the
town and the political world. Lopuhin and the old general took part in the
conversation at rare intervals. Prince Nikolay Andreitch listened like a
presiding judge receiving a report submitted to him, only testifying by his
silence, or from time to time by a brief word, that he was taking cognizance of
the facts laid before him.
The tone of the conversation was based on the assumption that no one approved
of what was being done in the political world. Incidents were related obviously
confirming the view that everything was going from bad to worse. But in every
story that was told, and in every criticism that was offered, what was striking
was the way that the speaker checked himself, or was checked, every time the
line was reached where a criticism might have reference to the person of the
Tsar himself.
At dinner the conversation turned on the last political news, Napoleon's
seizure of the possessions of the Duke of Oldenburg, and the Russian note,
hostile to Napoleon, which had been despatched to all the European courts.
“Bonaparte treats all Europe as a pirate does a captured vessel,” said
Rastoptchin, repeating a phrase he had uttered several times before. “One only
marvels at the long-suffering or the blindness of the ruling sovereigns. Now
it's the Pope's turn, and Bonaparte doesn't scruple to try and depose the head
of the Catholic Church, and no one says a word. Our Emperor alone has protested
against the seizure of the possessions of the Duke of Oldenburg. And even…”
Count Rastoptchin broke off, feeling that he was on the very border line beyond
which criticism was impossible.
“Other domains have been offered him instead of the duchy of Oldenburg,” said
the old prince. “He shifts the dukes about, as I might move my serfs from Bleak
Hills to Bogutcharovo and the Ryazan estates.”
“The Duke of Oldenburg supports his misfortune with admirable force of
character and resignation,” said Boris putting in his word respectfully. He said
this because on his journey from Petersburg he had had the honour of being
presented to the duke. The old prince looked at the young man as though he would
have liked to say something in reply, but changed his mind, considering him too
young.
“I have read our protest about the Oldenburg affair, and I was surprised at
how badly composed the note was,” said Count Rastoptchin in the casual tone of a
man criticising something with which he is very familiar.
Pierre looked at Rastoptchin in naïve wonder, unable to understand why he
should be troubled by the defective composition of the note.
“Does it matter how the note is worded, count,” he said, “if the meaning is
forcible?”
“My dear fellow, with our five hundred thousand troops, it should be easy to
have a good style,” said Count Rastoptchin.
Pierre perceived the point of Count Rastoptchin's dissatisfaction with the
wording of the note.
“I should have thought there were scribblers enough to write it,” said the
old prince. “Up in Petersburg they do nothing but write—not notes only, but new
laws they keep writing. My Andryusha up there has written a whole volume of new
laws for Russia. Nowadays they're always at it!” And he laughed an unnatural
laugh.
The conversation paused for a moment; the old general cleared his throat to
draw attention.
“Did you hear of the last incident at the review in Petersburg? Didn't the
new French ambassadors expose themselves!”
“Eh? Yes, I did hear something; he said something awkward in the presence of
his majesty.”
“His majesty drew his attention to the grenadier division and the parade
march,” pursued the general; “and it seems the ambassador took no notice and had
the insolence to say ‘We in France,' says he, ‘don't pay attention to such
trivial matters.' The emperor did not vouchsafe him a reply. At the review that
followed the emperor, they say, did not once deign to address him.”
Every one was silent; upon this fact which related to the Tsar personally, no
criticism could be offered.
“Impudent rogues!” said the old prince. “Do you know Metivier? I turned him
out of the house to-day. He was here, he was allowed to come in, in spite of my
begging no one should be admitted,” said the old prince, glancing angrily at his
daughter. And he told them his whole conversation with the French doctor and his
reasons for believing Metivier to be a spy. Though his reasons were very
insufficient and obscure, no one raised an objection.
After the meat, champagne was handed round. The guests rose from their places
to congratulate the old prince. Princess Marya too went up to him. He glanced at
her with a cold, spiteful glance, and offered her his shaven, wrinkled cheek.
The whole expression of his face told her that their morning's conversation was
not forgotten, that his resolution still held good, and that it was only owing
to the presence of their visitors that he did not tell her so now.
When they went into the drawing-room to coffee, the old men sat
together.
Prince Nikolay Andreitch grew more animated, and began to express his views
on the impending war. He said that our wars with Bonaparte would be unsuccessful
so long as we sought alliances with the Germans and went meddling in European
affairs, into which we had been drawn by the Peace of Tilsit. We had no business
to fight for Austria or against Austria. Our political interests all lay in the
East, and as regards Bonaparte, the one thing was an armed force on the
frontier, and a firm policy, and he would never again dare to cross the Russian
frontier, as he had done in 1807.
“And how should we, prince, fight against the French!” said Count
Rastoptchin. “Can we arm ourselves against our teachers and divinities? Look at
our young men, look at our ladies. Our gods are the French, and Paris—our
Paradise.”
He began talking more loudly, obviously with the intention of being heard by
every one.
“Our fashions are French, our ideas are French, our feelings are French! You
have sent Metivier about his business because he's a Frenchman and a scoundrel,
but our ladies are crawling on their hands and knees after him. Yesterday I was
at an evening party, and out of five ladies three were Catholics and had a papal
indulgence for embroidering on Sundays. And they sitting all but naked, like the
sign-boards of some public bath-house, if you'll excuse my saying so. Ah, when
one looks at our young people, prince, one would like to take Peter the Great's
old cudgel out of the museum and break a few ribs in the good old Russian style,
to knock the nonsense out of them!”
All were silent. The old prince looked at Rastoptchin with a smile on his
face and shook his head approvingly.
“Well, good-bye, your excellency; don't you be ill,” said Rastoptchin,
getting up with the brisk movements characteristic of him, and holding out his
hand to the old prince.
“Good-bye, my dear fellow. Your talk is a music I'm always glad to listen
to!” said the old prince, keeping hold of his hand and offering him his cheek
for a kiss. The others, too, got up when Rastoptchin did.
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