‘I think I’ll stand, Fyodor Ivanovich.’
‘Nonsense! Sit down and have a drink,’ said Anatole, and he poured him out a stiff glass of madeira. The driver’s eyes lit up at the sight of the wine. After one polite refusal he tossed it off and wiped his mouth with a red silk handkerchief which he took out of his cap.
‘Right, your Excellency, when do we start?’
‘Er . . .’ Anatole consulted his watch. ‘Time we were off now. Listen to me, Balaga. You will get us there in time?’
‘Oh yes, off to a good start and we’ll get there all right,’ said Balaga. ‘Got you to Tver, didn’t we? In seven hours. I bet you’ve not forgotten that, your Excellency!’
‘D’you know, one Christmas I drove back from Tver . . .’ Smiling at the memory of it, Anatole was talking to Makarin, who gazed back, lost in admiration. ‘It was incredible, Makarka, we flew the whole way – you could hardly breathe. We crashed into a line of wagons and jumped two of ’em! How about that?’
‘They was real horses,’ said Balaga, picking up the story. ‘Two young ’uns at the sides and that bay with the shaft’ – he turned to Dolokhov – ‘and you wouldn’t believe it, sir, forty miles them beasts galloped. There was no ’olding ’em back, me hands was frozen stiff it was that cold. I let go o’ the reins. “You ’old them yourself, sir,” says I, and I rolled back down in the sledge. Didn’t need no driving. Couldn’t ’old ’em back till we got there. Hell’s teeth, they got us there in three hours. Only one of ’em died, ’im on the left.’
CHAPTER 17
Anatole left the room and came back a few minutes later wearing a fur jacket with a silver belt, and a sable cap tilted at a jaunty angle, a good match for his handsome face. He paused for a look in the mirror and then turned to Dolokhov with the same mirror-pose and took a glass of wine.
‘Well, Fedya, I’ll say goodbye. Thanks for everything, and goodbye,’ said Anatole. ‘Well now, comrades, friends . . .’ he thought for a moment, ‘. . . of my youth . . . goodbye to you all.’ He had turned to Makarin and the others.
Although they were all going with him, Anatole evidently wanted to turn this address to his comrades into a moving and solemn ceremony. His speech was loud and measured, his chest was square and he was swinging one of his legs.
‘Raise your glasses everybody. You, too, Balaga. So . . . comrades . . . friends of my youth, we’ve had some fun together, seen a bit of life, had lots of fun. Haven’t we just! So, when shall we meet again? I’m off abroad! We’ve seen a bit of life, so goodbye, boys. I drink to you! Hurrah!’ This said, he drained his glass, and smashed it on the floor.
‘Your health!’ said Balaga. He, too, drained his glass and wiped his lips on his handkerchief.
Makarin embraced Anatole with tears in his eyes.
‘Oh dear, Prince, it breaks my heart to part from you,’ he said.
‘Come on! Let’s get going!’ shouted Anatole.
Balaga was half-way out of the room.
‘No, hang on,’ said Anatole. ‘Shut that door. We’ve got to sit down. That’s the way.’ The door was closed, and they all sat down.5
‘Right boys, quick march!’ said Anatole, getting to his feet.
Joseph, the valet, handed Anatole his sabretache and sabre, and they all went out into the hall.
‘What about the coat?’ said Dolokhov. ‘Hey, Ignatka! Slip over to Matryona Matveyevna, and ask her for that sable coat. I’ve heard what elopements can be like,’ said Dolokhov with a wink. ‘She’ll come tripping out more dead than alive, still dressed for indoors. Stop for a second and it’ll be all tears, and “dear Papa” and “dear Mamma”, then she’s frozen stiff and she wants to go back in – so you’ve got to wrap her up straightaway in a big coat and get her into the sledge.’
The valet came back with a woman’s fox-fur coat.
‘Idiot, I said sable. Hey, Matryosha, the sable coat!’ he shouted, his loud voice echoing through every room.
A pale, thin, good-looking gypsy woman with gleaming black eyes and curly black hair with a hint of grey ran out wearing a red shawl, with a sable coat over her arm.
‘Here you are. You’re welcome, I’m sure,’ she said, visibly afraid of her master, but ruing the loss of her coat.
Instead of replying Dolokhov took the coat, put it round Matryosha’s shoulders and wrapped her up in it.
‘That’s how it’s done,’ said Dolokhov. ‘And then like this,’ he said, turning the collar up round her head, leaving only her little face exposed. ‘And then like this, see?’ and he pushed Anatole’s head forward towards the inside of the collar and the flash of Matryosha’s smile.
‘Well, goodbye, Matryosha,’ said Anatole, giving her a kiss. ‘Oh dear, no more fun over here! My regards to Styoshka. Goodbye then. Goodbye, Matryosha. Wish me luck.’
‘God grant you all the luck in the world, Prince,’ said Matryosha with her strong gypsy accent.
