Book 11 Chapter 22

THE TOWN ITSELF meanwhile was deserted. There was scarcely a creature in the streets. The gates and the shops were all closed; here and there near pot-houses could be heard solitary shouts or drunken singing. No one was driving in the streets, and footsteps were rarely heard. Povarsky Street was perfectly still and deserted. In the immense courtyard of the Rostovs' house a few wisps of straw were lying about, litter out of the waggons that had gone away, and not a man was to be seen. In the Rostovs' house—abandoned with all its wealth—there were two persons in the great drawing-room. These were the porter, Ignat, and the little page, Mishka, the grandson of Vassilitch, who had remained in Moscow with his grandfather. Mishka had opened the clavichord, and was strumming with one finger. The porter, with his arms akimbo and a gleeful smile on his face, was standing before the great looking-glass.

“That's fine, eh, Uncle Ignat?” said the boy, beginning to bang with both hands at once on the keys.

“Ay, ay!” answered Ignat, admiring the broadening grin on his visage in the glass.

“Shameless fellows! Shameless, upon my word!” they heard behind them the voice of Mavra Kuzminishna, who had softly entered. “The fat-faced fellow grinning at himself! So this is what you are at! It's not all cleared away down there, and Vassilitch fairly knocked up. You wait a bit!”

Ignat, setting his belt straight, left off smiling, and with eyes submissively downcast, walked out of the room.

“Auntie, I was only just touching …” said the boy.

“I'll teach you only just to touch. Little rascal!” cried Mavra Kuzminishna, waving her hand at him. “Go and set the samovar for your granddad.”

Brushing the dust off, she closed the clavichord, and sighing heavily went out of the drawing-room and closed the door. Going out into the yard Mavra Kuzminishna mused where she would go next: whether to drink tea in the lodge with Vassilitch, or to the storeroom to put away what still remained to be stored away.

There was a sound of rapid footsteps in the still street. The steps paused at the gate, the latch rattled as some hand tried to open it.

Mavra Kuzminishna went up to the little gate.

“Whom do you want?”

“The count, Count Ilya Andreitch Rostov.”

“But who are you?”

“I am an officer. I want to see him,” said a genial voice, the voice of a Russian gentleman.

Mavra Kuzminishna opened the gate. And there walked into the courtyard a round-faced officer, a lad of eighteen, whose type of face strikingly resembled the Rostovs'.

“They have gone away, sir. Yesterday, in the evening, their honours set off,” said Mavra Kuzminishna cordially. The young officer standing in the gateway, as though hesitating whether to go in or not, gave a click with his tongue expressive of disappointment.

“Ah, how annoying!” he said. “Yesterday I ought to … Ah, what a pity …”

Meanwhile Mavra Kuzminishna was intently and sympathetically scrutinising the familiar features of the Rostov family in the young man's face, and the tattered cloak and trodden-down boots he was wearing. “What was it you wanted to see the count for?” she asked.

“Well … what am I to do now!” the officer cried, with vexation in his voice, and he took hold of the gate as though intending to go away. He stopped short again in uncertainty.

“You see,” he said all at once, “I am a kinsman of the count's, and he has always been very kind to me. So do you see” (he looked with a merry and good-humoured smile at his cloak and boots) “I am in rags, and haven't a farthing; so I had meant to ask the count …”

Mavra Kuzminishna did not let him finish.

“Would you wait just a minute, sir? Only one minute,” she said. And as soon as the officer let go of the gate, Mavra Kuzminishna turned, and with her rapid, elderly step hurried into the back court to her lodge.

While she was running to her room, the officer, with downcast head and a faint smile, was pacing up and down the yard, gazing at his tattered boots.

“What a pity I have missed uncle! What a nice old body! Where has she run off to? And how am I to find out the nearest way for me to overtake the regiment, which must be at Rogozhsky by now?” the young officer was musing meanwhile. Mavra Kuzminishna came round the corner with a frightened and, at the same time, resolute face, carrying in her hands a knotted check handkerchief. A few steps from him, she untied the handkerchief, took out of it a white twenty-five rouble note, and gave it hurriedly to the officer.

“Had his excellency been at home, to be sure, he would have done a kinsman's part, but as it is … see, may be …” Mavra Kuzminishna was overcome with shyness and confusion. But the officer, with no haste nor reluctance, took the note, and thanked Mavra Kuzminishna. “If only the count had been at home,” murmured Mavra Kuzminishna, as it were apologetically. “Christ be with you, sir. God keep you safe,” she said, bowing and showing him out. The officer, smiling and shaking his head, as though laughing at himself, ran almost at a trot along the empty streets to overtake his regiment at Yauzsky bridge.

But for some time Mavra Kuzminishna remained standing with wet eyes before the closed gate, pensively shaking her head, and feeling a sudden rush of motherly tenderness and pity for the unknown boy-officer.

城内此时是空旷寂寞。大街上几乎没有一个行人。住户的大门和店铺都上了锁，只在一些酒馆附近听得见吼叫或是醉汉的哼唱。街上没有人驶行，行人的脚步声也很少听得见。波瓦尔大街一片沉寂荒凉。罗斯托夫府邸的院子里，撒着草料屑和马的粪便，却不见一个人影。在罗斯托夫连财产也全部留下来了的府上，有两个人待在大客厅里。这是看门人伊格纳特和小家伙米什卡，他是同爷爷瓦西里奇一道留在莫斯科的。米什卡打开克拉维珂琴盖①，用一个指头弹了起来。看门人双手叉腰笑嘻嘻地站在大穿衣镜前面。

①clavichord之音译，或译“翼琴”，今又称古钢琴，因系现代钢琴piano之前身，但当时并不古。

“弹得多好啊！啊？伊格纳特叔叔！”小孩说，突然两只手都在键盘上拍打起来。

“啧啧，你呀！”伊格纳特回答，望着镜子里愈来愈高兴的笑容，他很是惊奇。

“不害臊！真不害臊！”两人背后传来悄悄进屋的玛夫拉·库兹米尼什娜的声音。“瞧他那个大胖脸，龇牙咧嘴。养你们干这个！那边什么都没收掇好呢，瓦西里奇累坏了。等着给你算帐！”

伊格纳特整理好腰带，收敛起笑容，驯服地垂下眼睛，赶忙走出屋子。

“大婶，我轻轻弹了一下。”小孩说。

“我也轻轻揍你一下，小淘气鬼！”玛夫拉·库兹米尼什娜朝他挥手喊道：“去，给爷爷烧茶。”

玛夫拉·库兹米尼什娜掸掸灰尘，合上了克拉维珂琴盖。

然后重重地叹了一口气，出了客厅，锁上了房门。

走到院子里，玛夫拉·库兹米尼什娜想了想该去哪儿：去瓦西里奇厢房喝茶呢，还是去库房收拾还没收拾好的东西。

寂静的街上响起了急促的脚步声。脚步声在门旁停住了。

门闩发出了响声，一只手用力推开它。

玛夫拉·库兹米尼什娜走到便门前。

“找谁？”

“伯爵，伊利亚·安德烈伊奇·罗斯托夫伯爵。”

“您又是谁呢？”

“我是军官。我想要见他。”一副悦耳高雅的腔调在说话。

玛夫拉·库兹米尼什娜打开了便门，走到院子里来的是一个十七八岁，圆脸、脸型像罗斯托夫家的军官。

“都走啦，少爷。昨天傍晚走的，”玛夫拉·库兹米尼什娜客气地说。

年轻的军官站在便门里，好像有点犹豫不决——是进屋还是不进屋去——的样子，他弹了一下舌头。

“噢，太遗憾了！”他说，“我本应该昨天……噢，真遗憾！

……”

玛拉夫·库兹米尼什娜同情地仔细从年轻人脸上，察看她所熟悉的罗斯托夫血缘的特征，又看看他身上的挂破了的军大衣和破旧的皮靴。

“您为什么要来找伯爵呢？”他问。

“那就……没法了！”军官沮丧地说，抓住门像是要走。他又迟疑地停下。

“您看出来了没有？”突然他说，“我是伯爵的家属，他一向对我很好。现在，您瞧见没有（他友好地愉快地微笑着看了自己的大衣和皮靴），都穿破了，可钱又没有，我想请求伯爵……”

玛夫拉·库兹米尼什娜不让他说下去。

“您稍稍等一下，少爷。就一分钟，”他说。军官刚刚把手从门上放下，玛夫拉·库兹米尼什娜就已转身，以老太婆的快步子向后院自己的厢房走去。

在玛夫拉·库兹米尼什娜跑回自己屋子的这段时间，军官低下头望着已裂开的皮靴，脸上有些许笑意，在院子里蹓跶。“真遗憾，没碰到叔叔。但是老太婆很好啊！她跑到哪儿去了？我又怎么会知道，走哪些街道可以抄近路赶上团队呢？他们现在恐怕走到罗戈日城门了呢。”年轻军官在这一时刻想着。玛夫拉·库兹米尼什娜神情惊慌却又坚定，手里捧着一个裹好的方格头巾，从一个角落出来。在走到离军官几步远的地方，她便解开头巾，拿出里面那张白色的二十五卢布钞票，急忙递给他。

“老爷要是在家，晓得了。他们准会照亲属招呼，但是，也许……现在……”玛夫拉·库兹米尼什娜觉得难为情，慌乱起来了。但是，军官并不拒绝，不慌不忙地接过纸币，并感谢玛夫拉·库兹米尼什娜。“要是伯爵在家，”玛夫拉·库兹米尼什娜仍在抱歉地说。“愿基督保佑您，少爷上帝保佑您。”玛夫拉·库兹米尼什娜说，一面鞠着躬送他出门。军官仿佛在自我嘲弄，微笑地摇着头，几乎快步跑过空旷的街道，朝雅乌兹桥方向去追赶自己所属的团队。

而玛夫拉·库兹米尼什娜还含着眼泪，久久地站在已经上了闩的便门后面，沉思地摇着头，突然觉得她对陌生的青年军官怀有母性的柔情和怜爱。