It was getting towards the end of January when Count Ilya Rostov arrived in Moscow with Natasha and Sonya. The countess was still too ill to travel, but it was no longer possible to put things off until she got better; any day now Prince Andrey was due to arrive in Moscow. In any case they had to order the trousseau, sell the estate just outside Moscow, and take advantage of old Prince Bolkonsky’s presence in the city to arrange for his future daughter-in-law to be introduced. The Rostovs’ town house had not been heated, and since this was only a short stay and the countess wasn’t with them the old count elected to stay with Marya Dmitriyevna Akhrosimov, with whom the count had a long-standing offer of accommodation.
Late one night the Rostovs’ four sledges drove into Marya Dmitriyevna’s courtyard in Old Konyusheny Street. She now lived alone, having married off her daughter and seen her sons enter the service. She still had a good bearing, still spoke her mind, opining vociferously on all subjects, and her whole personality seemed like a reproach to everyone else for all kinds of weaknesses, passions and impulses that she happened to consider beyond the pale. She rose early, donned her house-jacket and saw to the housekeeping, before driving off, if it happened to be a saint’s day, first to Mass and then on to the gaols and prisons, where she did good work that she never spoke about. On ordinary week-days she dressed and received petitioners from all classes – there was someone every day. Then she took lunch, a good rich meal, always with three or four guests in attendance. She would spend the afternoon playing boston, and during the evening she would have the newspapers and the latest books read to her while she sat there knitting. She rarely interrupted her routine to go out, and if she did it was only to visit the most important people in town.
She was still up when the Rostovs arrived and the pulley of the hall door creaked as it welcomed the Rostovs and their servants in from the cold. Marya Dmitriyevna was standing in the hall doorway, with her spectacles perched on the end of her nose and her head flung back, and she greeted the newcomers with a stern and angry look. Anyone might have thought she was annoyed at them for daring to come and was about to send them away again, but for the fact that she was simultaneously issuing detailed instructions to her servants for the accommodation of her guests and all their baggage.
‘The count’s things? Over here,’ she said, pointing to the trunks without a word of welcome to anyone. ‘The young ladies, over there on the left. All this fiddle-faddle!’ she called to her maids. ‘Get the samovar going! . . . Filled out nicely, very pretty,’ she said to Natasha, catching her by the hood and drawing her close. Natasha was glowing red from the frosty air. ‘Phoo! You’re awfully cold! Come along, get those things off,’ she shouted across to the count, who was wanting to come over and kiss her hand. ‘You must be frozen too. Plenty of rum in the tea! Sonya, dear,
Eventually, when they had taken off their outer clothes, freshened up after the journey and come down to tea, Marya Dmitriyevna went round kissing them all.
‘It does my heart good to see you. Thank you for coming to stay with me. It’s been a long time,’ she said, with a knowing glance at Natasha. ‘The old fellow’s here, and his son’s due back any day now. You must make their acquaintance, you simply must. But we can talk about that later,’ she added, glancing across at Sonya – a clear signal that she didn’t want to talk about it in her presence.
‘Now, listen,’ she said, turning to the count. ‘What are your plans for tomorrow? Who do you want me to send for? Shinshin?’ She bent down one finger. ‘That snivelling woman, Anna Mikhaylovna.’ She bent down another. ‘She’s here with her son. He’s getting married! Then Bezukhov, I suppose. He’s here, too, with his wife. He ran away from her, but she came galloping after him. He had lunch here last Wednesday. Now, these people,’ she went on, indicating the young ladies, ‘I’ll take them to the Iversky chapel tomorrow, and we’ll call in on Madame Saucy Rascal.’ (Her dressmaker’s real name was Suzie Pascal.) ‘You’ll be getting all the latest things, I suppose. Don’t look at me – sleeves are out here nowadays! Only the other day young Princess Irina Vasilyevna called in here, and what a sight! Looked as if she’d put two barrels on her arms. There’s a new fashion every day now. And what will you be getting up to?’ she asked the count abruptly.
