CHAPTER XVII

After Anna Mikháylovna had driven off with her son to visit Count Cyril
Vladímirovich Bezúkhov, Countess Rostóva sat for a long time all alone
applying her handkerchief to her eyes. At last she rang.

“What is the matter with you, my dear?” she said crossly to the maid who
kept her waiting some minutes. “Don’t you wish to serve me? Then I’ll find
you another place.”

The countess was upset by her friend’s sorrow and humiliating poverty, and
was therefore out of sorts, a state of mind which with her always found
expression in calling her maid “my dear” and speaking to her with
exaggerated politeness.

“I am very sorry, ma’am,” answered the maid.

“Ask the count to come to me.”

The count came waddling in to see his wife with a rather guilty look as
usual.

“Well, little countess? What a sauté of game au madère we
are to have, my dear! I tasted it. The thousand rubles I paid for Tarás
were not ill-spent. He is worth it!”

He sat down by his wife, his elbows on his knees and his hands ruffling
his gray hair.

“What are your commands, little countess?”

“You see, my dear… What’s that mess?” she said, pointing to his
waistcoat. “It’s the sauté, most likely,” she added with a smile.
“Well, you see, Count, I want some money.”

Her face became sad.

“Oh, little countess!” … and the count began bustling to get out his
pocketbook.

“I want a great deal, Count! I want five hundred rubles,” and taking out
her cambric handkerchief she began wiping her husband’s waistcoat.

“Yes, immediately, immediately! Hey, who’s there?” he called out in a tone
only used by persons who are certain that those they call will rush to
obey the summons. “Send Dmítri to me!”

Dmítri, a man of good family who had been brought up in the count’s house
and now managed all his affairs, stepped softly into the room.

“This is what I want, my dear fellow,” said the count to the deferential
young man who had entered. “Bring me…” he reflected a moment, “yes,
bring me seven hundred rubles, yes! But mind, don’t bring me such tattered
and dirty notes as last time, but nice clean ones for the countess.”

“Yes, Dmítri, clean ones, please,” said the countess, sighing deeply.

“When would you like them, your excellency?” asked Dmítri. “Allow me to
inform you… But, don’t be uneasy,” he added, noticing that the count was
beginning to breathe heavily and quickly which was always a sign of
approaching anger. “I was forgetting… Do you wish it brought at once?”

“Yes, yes; just so! Bring it. Give it to the countess.”

“What a treasure that Dmítri is,” added the count with a smile when the
young man had departed. “There is never any ‘impossible’ with him. That’s
a thing I hate! Everything is possible.”

“Ah, money, Count, money! How much sorrow it causes in the world,” said
the countess. “But I am in great need of this sum.”

“You, my little countess, are a notorious spendthrift,” said the count,
and having kissed his wife’s hand he went back to his study.

When Anna Mikháylovna returned from Count Bezúkhov’s the money, all in
clean notes, was lying ready under a handkerchief on the countess’ little
table, and Anna Mikháylovna noticed that something was agitating her.

“Well, my dear?” asked the countess.

“Oh, what a terrible state he is in! One would not know him, he is so ill!
I was only there a few moments and hardly said a word…”

“Annette, for heaven’s sake don’t refuse me,” the countess began, with a
blush that looked very strange on her thin, dignified, elderly face, and
she took the money from under the handkerchief.

Anna Mikháylovna instantly guessed her intention and stooped to be ready
to embrace the countess at the appropriate moment.

“This is for Borís from me, for his outfit.”

Anna Mikháylovna was already embracing her and weeping. The countess wept
too. They wept because they were friends, and because they were
kindhearted, and because they—friends from childhood—had to
think about such a base thing as money, and because their youth was
over…. But those tears were pleasant to them both.