Pierre arrived just at dinner-time, and awkwardly sat down in the middle of the drawing-room in the first easy-chair he came across, blocking up the way for every one. The countess tried to make him talk, but he looked na？vely round him over his spectacles as though he were looking for some one, and replied in monosyllables to all the countess’s questions. He was in the way, and was the only person unaware of it. The greater number of the guests, knowing the story of the bear, looked inquisitively at this big, stout, inoffensive-looking person, puzzled to think how such a spiritless and staid young man could have played such a prank.
“You have only lately arrived？” the countess asked him.
“Oui, madame.”
“You have not seen my husband？”
“Non, madame.” He smiled very inappropriately.
“You have lately been in Paris, I believe？ I suppose it’s very interesting.”
“Very interesting.”
The countess exchanged glances with Anna Mihalovna. Anna Mihalovna saw that she was asked to undertake the young man, and sitting down by him she began talking of his father. But to her as to the countess he replied only in monosyllables. The other guests were all busily engaged together. “The Razumovskys … It was very charming … You are so kind … Countess Apraxin …” rose in murmurs on all sides. The countess got up and went into the reception hall.
“Marya Dmitryevna？” her voice was heard asking from there.
“Herself,” a rough voice was heard in reply, and immediately after, Marya Dmitryevna walked into the room. All the girls and even the ladies, except the very old ones, got up. Marya Dmitryevna, a stout woman of fifty, stopped in the doorway, and holding her head with its grey curls erect, she looked down at the guests and as though tucking up her cuffs, she deliberately arranged the wide sleeves of her gown. Marya Dmitryevna always spoke Russian.
“Health and happiness to the lady whose name-day we are keeping and to her children,” she said in her loud, rich voice that dominated all other sounds. “Well, you old sinner,” she turned to the count who was kissing her hand. “I suppose you are tired of Moscow—nowhere to go out with the dogs？ Well, my good man, what’s to be done？ these nestlings will grow up.…” She pointed to the girls. “Willy-nilly, you must look out for young men for them.”
“Well, my Cossack？” （Marya Dmitryevna used to call Natasha a Cossack） she said, stroking the hand of Natasha, who came up to kiss her hand gaily without shyness. “I know you’re a wicked girl, but I like you.”
She took out of her huge reticule some amber earrings with drops, and giving them to Natasha, whose beaming birthday face flushed rosy red, she turned away immediately and addressed Pierre.
“Ay, ay！ come here, sir！” she said in an intentionally quiet and gentle voice. “Come here, sir …” And she tucked her sleeve up higher in an ominous manner.
Pierre went up, looking innocently at her over his spectacles.
“Come along, come along, sir！ I was the only person that told your father the truth when he was in high favour, and in your case it is a sacred duty.” She paused. Every one was mutely expectant of what was to follow, feeling that this was merely a prelude. “A pretty fellow, there’s no denying！ a pretty fellow！ … His father is lying on his deathbed, and he’s amusing himself, setting a police-constable astride on a bear！ For shame, sir, for shame！ You had better have gone to the war.”
She turned away and gave her hand to the count, who could hardly keep from laughing.
