War and Peace

natole went out of the room and returned a few minutes later wearing
a fur coat girt with a silver belt, and a sable cap jauntily set on one
side and very becoming to his handsome face. Having looked in a mirror,
and standing before Dólokhov in the same pose he had assumed before it,
he lifted a glass of wine.

“Well, good-by, Theodore. Thank you for everything and farewell!” said
Anatole. “Well, comrades and friends...” he considered for a moment “...
of my youth, farewell!” he said, turning to Makárin and the others.

Though they were all going with him, Anatole evidently wished to make
something touching and solemn out of this address to his comrades. He
spoke slowly in a loud voice and throwing out his chest slightly swayed
one leg.

“All take glasses; you too, Balagá. Well, comrades and friends of my
youth, we’ve had our fling and lived and reveled. Eh? And now, when
shall we meet again? I am going abroad. We have had a good time—now
farewell, lads! To our health! Hurrah!...” he cried, and emptying his
glass flung it on the floor.

“To your health!” said Balagá who also emptied his glass, and wiped his
mouth with his handkerchief.

Makárin embraced Anatole with tears in his eyes.

“Ah, Prince, how sorry I am to part from you!

“Let’s go. Let’s go!” cried Anatole.

Balagá was about to leave the room.

“No, stop!” said Anatole. “Shut the door; we have first to sit down.
That’s the way.”

They shut the door and all sat down.

“Now, quick march, lads!” said Anatole, rising.

Joseph, his valet, handed him his sabretache and saber, and they all
went out into the vestibule.

“And where’s the fur cloak?” asked Dólokhov. “Hey, Ignátka! Go to
Matrëna Matrévna and ask her for the sable cloak. I have heard what
elopements are like,” continued Dólokhov with a wink. “Why, she’ll rush
out more dead than alive just in the things she is wearing; if you delay
at all there’ll be tears and ‘Papa’ and ‘Mamma,’ and she’s frozen in a
minute and must go back—but you wrap the fur cloak round her first thing
and carry her to the sleigh.”

The valet brought a woman’s fox-lined cloak.

“Fool, I told you the sable one! Hey, Matrëna, the sable!” he shouted so
that his voice rang far through the rooms.

A handsome, slim, and pale-faced gypsy girl with glittering black eyes
and curly blue-black hair, wearing a red shawl, ran out with a sable
mantle on her arm.

“Here, I don’t grudge it—take it!” she said, evidently afraid of her
master and yet regretful of her cloak.

Dólokhov, without answering, took the cloak, threw it over Matrëna, and
wrapped her up in it.

“That’s the way,” said Dólokhov, “and then so!” and he turned the collar
up round her head, leaving only a little of the face uncovered. “And
then so, do you see?” and he pushed Anatole’s head forward to meet the
gap left by the collar, through which Matrëna’s brilliant smile was
seen.

“Well, good-by, Matrëna,” said Anatole, kissing her. “Ah, my revels here
are over. Remember me to Stëshka. There, good-by! Good-by, Matrëna, wish
me luck!”

“Well, Prince, may God give you great luck!” said Matrëna in her gypsy
accent.

Two troykas were standing before the porch and two young drivers were
holding the horses. Balagá took his seat in the front one and holding
his elbows high arranged the reins deliberately. Anatole and Dólokhov
got in with him. Makárin, Khvóstikov, and a valet seated themselves in
the other sleigh.

“Well, are you ready?” asked Balagá.

“Go!” he cried, twisting the reins round his hands, and the troyka tore
down the Nikítski Boulevard.

“Tproo! Get out of the way! Hi!... Tproo!...” The shouting of Balagá
and of the sturdy young fellow seated on the box was all that could
be heard. On the Arbát Square the troyka caught against a carriage;
something cracked, shouts were heard, and the troyka flew along the
Arbát Street.

After taking a turn along the Podnovínski Boulevard, Balagá began to
rein in, and turning back drew up at the crossing of the old Konyúsheny
Street.

The young fellow on the box jumped down to hold the horses and Anatole
and Dólokhov went along the pavement. When they reached the gate
Dólokhov whistled. The whistle was answered, and a maidservant ran out.

“Come into the courtyard or you’ll be seen; she’ll come out directly,”
said she.

Dólokhov stayed by the gate. Anatole followed the maid into the
courtyard, turned the corner, and ran up into the porch.

He was met by Gabriel, Márya Dmítrievna’s gigantic footman.

“Come to the mistress, please,” said the footman in his deep bass,
intercepting any retreat.

“To what Mistress? Who are you?” asked Anatole in a breathless whisper.

“Kindly step in, my orders are to bring you in.”

“Kurágin! Come back!” shouted Dólokhov. “Betrayed! Back!”

Dólokhov, after Anatole entered, had remained at the wicket gate and was
struggling with the yard porter who was trying to lock it. With a last
desperate effort Dólokhov pushed the porter aside, and when Anatole ran
back seized him by the arm, pulled him through the wicket, and ran back
with him to the troyka.