War And Peace: Book 8 - CHAPTER XVII

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ANATOLE went out of the room, and a few minutes later he came back wearing a

fur pelisse, girt with a silver belt, and a sable cap, jauntily stuck on one

side, and very becoming to his handsome face. Looking at himself in the

looking-glass, and then standing before Dolohov in the same attitude he had

taken before the looking-glass, he took a glass of wine.

“Well, Fedya, farewell; thanks for everything, and farewell,” said Anatole.

“Come, comrades, friends …”—he grew pensive—“of my youth … farewell,” he turned

to Makarin and the others.

Although they were all going with him, Anatole evidently wanted to make a

touching and solemn ceremony of this address to his comrades. He spoke in a

loud, deliberate voice, squaring his chest and swinging one leg.

“All take glasses; you too, Balaga. Well, lads, friends of my youth, we have

had jolly sprees together. Eh? Now, when shall we meet again? I'm going abroad!

We've had a good time, and farewell, lads. Here's to our health! Hurrah! …” he

said, tossing off his glass, and flinging it on the floor.

“To your health!” said Balaga. He, too, emptied his glass and wiped his lips

with his handkerchief.

Makarin embraced Anatole with tears in his eyes.

“Ah, prince, how it grieves my heart to part from you,” he said.

“Start! start!” shouted Anatole.

Balaga was going out of the room.

“No; stay,” said Anatole. “Shut the door; we must sit down. Like this.” They

shut the door and all sat down.

“Well, now, quick, march, lads!” said Anatole, getting up.

The valet, Joseph, gave Anatole his knapsack and sword, and they all went out

into the vestibule.

“But where's a fur cloak?” said Dolohov. “Hey, Ignatka! Run in to Matryona

Matveyevna, and ask her for the sable cloak. I've heard what elopements are

like,” said Dolohov, winking. “She'll come skipping out more dead than alive

just in the things she had on indoors; the slightest delay and then there are

tears, and dear papa and dear mamma, and she's frozen in a minute and for going

back again—you wrap her up in a cloak at once and carry her to the

sledge.”

The valet brought a woman's fox-lined pelisse.

“Fool, I told you the sable. Hey, Matryoshka, the sable,” he shouted, so that

his voice rang out through the rooms.

A handsome, thin, and pale gypsy woman, with shining black eyes and curly

black hair, with a bluish shade in it, ran out, wearing a red shawl and holding

a sable cloak on her arm.

“Here, I don't grudge it; take it,” she said, in visible fear of her lord and

regretful at losing the cloak.

Dolohov, making her no answer, took the cloak, flung it about Matryosha, and

wrapped her up in it.

“That's the way,” said Dolohov. “And then this is the way,” he said and he

turned the collar up round her head, leaving it only a little open before the

face. “And then this is the way, do you see?” and he moved Anatole's head

forward to meet the open space left by the collar, from which Matryosha's

flashing smile peeped out.

“Well, good-bye, Matryosha,” said Anatole, kissing her. “Ah, all my fun here

is over! Give my love to Styoshka. There, good-bye! Good-bye, Matryosha; wish me

happiness.”

“God grant you great happiness, prince,” said Matryosha, with her gypsy

accent.

At the steps stood two three-horse sledges; two stalwart young drivers were

holding them. Balaga took his seat in the foremost, and holding his elbows high,

began deliberately arranging the reins in his hands. Anatole and Dolohov got in

with him. Makarin, Hvostikov, and the valet got into the other sledge.

“Ready, eh?” queried Balaga. “Off!” he shouted, twisting the reins round his

hands, and the sledge flew at break-neck pace along the Nikitsky

Boulevard.

“Tprroo! Hi! … Tproo!!” Balaga and the young driver on the box were

continually shouting.

In Arbatsky Square the sledge came into collision with a carriage; there was

a crash and shouts, and the sledge flew off along Arbaty. Turning twice along

Podnovinsky, Balaga began to pull up, and turning back, stopped the horses at

the Old Equerrys' crossing.

A smart young driver jumped down to hold the horses by the bridle; Anatole

and Dolohov walked along the pavement. On reaching the gates, Dolohov whistled.

The whistle was answered, and a maid-servant ran out.

“Come into the courtyard, or you'll be seen; she is coming in a minute,” she

said.

Dolohov stayed at the gate. Anatole followed the maid into the courtyard,

turned a corner, and ran up the steps.

He was met by Gavrilo, Marya Dmitryevna's huge groom.

“Walk this way to the mistress,” said the groom in his bass, blocking up the

doorway.

“What mistress? And who are you?” Anatole asked in a breathless

whisper.

“Walk in; my orders are to show you in.”

“Kuragin! back!” shouted Dolohov. “Treachery, back!”

Dolohov, at the little back gate where he had stopped, was struggling with

the porter, who was trying to shut the gate after Anatole as he ran in. With a

desperate effort Dolohov shoved away the porter, and clutching at Anatole,

pulled him through the gate, and ran back with him to the sledge.

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