If that's all they give you, count yourself lucky.
It wasn't necessary to count sheep.
That had to count for something.
"You have until the count of five to put down your weapons!" he bellowed.
I can always count on you.
"Take the bag and count the money that is in it," he said.
I count the roses on the wallpaper.
A little memory work might be required, but anyone could count from nineteen to twenty.
I'll count to three, girl.
That ought to count for something, give us a little leeway.
The count jumped up and, swaying from side to side, spread his arms wide and threw them round the little girl who had run in.
I'll count to five?
"Count and collect," Gabriel ordered.
So playing by the rules doesn't count any more?
Vara, the only man he might count as a friend if he dared count any, whirled, and moonlight caught his pale green eyes.
"Count me in," Gerald said.
By the time you count the hills, hollows and turns, it's closer to ten.
The ranchers around here say they can always count on him to help when they're in a bind.
When he finishes clean-up in Ohio, he's been instructed to count the stalks of wheat in the field outside Speck's farmhouse and not return until he's done, Dusty growled.
For ten bucks more, she was to cover Ridgway's four hundred citizens in the county's only other town, if you didn't count minuscule Colona, which most people didn't.
Whatever happened, Dean knew he could count on the sheriff's fairness and honesty.
Just count your blessings he's out of the running and now you're a slam-dunk to become Sheriff David Dean.
He'd probably lost count of the foals he had delivered.
Great count, Lori, and thanks.
He didn't bother to try to count how many were waiting for him.
He strode through more corridors than she was able to count, down several flights of stairs and finally to a short, dead end hallway with a ceiling that towered ten stories above.
Count your blessings, Dean thought.
Jackson had lost count of the times she found 'The One', only to have her heart broken months or years later.
"Sure you are, here you go Count Dracula," and she turned her head to expose her neck.
Count Dracula I presume?
You've got to the count of five to have you both out of my sight.
Nothing, unless you count a tire patch kit and a half a receipt for $59.95, neither of which probably even belonged to Byrne.
"They don't count heads at this place," Fred answered glumly.
I'm not jealous or something; besides, it's her life, but I know she's really messed up right now and she needs someone she can count on—and trust.
Is he actually sterile, or is his count so low that conception is highly unlikely?
She'd survived another time, but she couldn't count on fate favoring her much longer, not when madness had begun to take its hold of her.
"That doesn't count as a secret," he objected.
Jessi sucked in a deep breath, held it for a count of five then released it.
He allied himself to the Mongols against the advance of the Egyptian sultan; but in 1268 he lost Antioch to Bibars, and when he died in 1275 he was only count of Tripoli.
She could count his ribs easily where they showed through the skin of his body, and his head was long and seemed altogether too big for him, as if it did not fit.
We never count our fish before they are caught.
And that doesn't even count the many other charitable organizations that have not filed for this tax-exempt status with the federal government.
By one count, rice is the principle source of calories for about half the planet.
Our "strong ties"—family, close friends and the like—we can always count on, but they are relatively few.
Miss Sullivan tried to teach me to count by stringing beads in groups, and by arranging kintergarten straws I learned to add and subtract.
I am proud to count him among my friends.
I count it one of the sweetest privileges of my life to have known and conversed with many men of genius.
I hope it will not occur to her to count the hairs of her head.
She can count to thirty very quickly, and can write seven of the square-hand letters and the words which can be made with them.
I wished her to make the groups of threes and supposed she would then have to count them in order to know what number fifteen threes would make.
The very fact that the nineteenth century has not produced many authors whom the world may count among the greatest of all time does not in my opinion justify the remark, "There may come a time when people cease to write."
An honest man has hardly need to count more than his ten fingers, or in extreme cases he may add his ten toes, and lump the rest.
I cannot count one.
It is not worth the while to go round the world to count the cats in Zanzibar.
Can we not count upon some independent votes?
If you have nothing better to do, Count (or Prince), and if the prospect of spending an evening with a poor invalid is not too terrible, I shall be very charmed to see you tonight between 7 and 10--Annette Scherer.
This stout young man was an illegitimate son of Count Bezukhov, a well-known grandee of Catherine's time who now lay dying in Moscow.
The count met the guests and saw them off, inviting them all to dinner.
The conversation was on the chief topic of the day: the illness of the wealthy and celebrated beau of Catherine's day, Count Bezukhov, and about his illegitimate son Pierre, the one who had behaved so improperly at Anna Pavlovna's reception.
"I am so sorry for the poor count," said the visitor.
"What is that?" asked the countess as if she did not know what the visitor alluded to, though she had already heard about the cause of Count Bezukhov's distress some fifteen times.
"What a nice figure the policeman must have cut, my dear!" shouted the count, dying with laughter.
"The fact of the matter is," said she significantly, and also in a half whisper, "everyone knows Count Cyril's reputation....
He has lost count of his children, but this Pierre was his favorite.
The fact is he has come to see Count Cyril Vladimirovich, hearing how ill he is.
"But do you know, my dear, that was a capital joke," said the count; and seeing that the elder visitor was not listening, he turned to the young ladies.
"Ah yes, my dear," said the count, addressing the visitor and pointing to Nicholas, "his friend Boris has become an officer, and so for friendship's sake he is leaving the university and me, his old father, and entering the military service, my dear.
Isn't that friendship? remarked the count in an inquiring tone.
It can't be helped! said the count, shrugging his shoulders and speaking playfully of a matter that evidently distressed him.
My only hope now is in Count Cyril Vladimirovich Bezukhov.
"I often think, though, perhaps it's a sin," said the princess, "that here lives Count Cyril Vladimirovich Bezukhov so rich, all alone... that tremendous fortune... and what is his life worth?
He says Count Orlov never gave such a dinner as ours will be!
Count Cyril Vladimirovich is your godfather after all, your future depends on him.
"My friend," said Anna Mikhaylovna in gentle tones, addressing the hall porter, "I know Count Cyril Vladimirovich is very ill... that's why I have come...
Here he is, and the count has not once asked for him.
The story told about him at Count Rostov's was true.
The count is suffering physically and mentally, and apparently you have done your best to increase his mental sufferings.
The count is very, very ill, and you must not see him at all.
I have come with my mother to see the count, but it seems he is not well.
"Count Rostov asks you to come to dinner today," said he, after a considerable pause which made Pierre feel uncomfortable.
"Ah, Count Rostov!" exclaimed Pierre joyfully.
Everybody is wondering to whom the count will leave his fortune, though he may perhaps outlive us all, as I sincerely hope he will...
After Anna Mikhaylovna had driven off with her son to visit Count Cyril Vladimirovich Bezukhov, Countess Rostova sat for a long time all alone applying her handkerchief to her eyes.
Ask the count to come to me.
The count came waddling in to see his wife with a rather guilty look as usual.
Well, you see, Count, I want some money.
"Oh, little countess!"... and the count began bustling to get out his pocketbook.
"This is what I want, my dear fellow," said the count to the deferential young man who had entered.
But, don't be uneasy, he added, noticing that the count was beginning to breathe heavily and quickly which was always a sign of approaching anger.
When Anna Mikhaylovna returned from Count Bezukhov's the money, all in clean notes, was lying ready under a handkerchief on the countess' little table, and Anna Mikhaylovna noticed that something was agitating her.
The count took the gentlemen into his study and showed them his choice collection of Turkish pipes.
The count sat on the sofa between two guests who were smoking and talking.
The count sat between them and listened attentively.
The count burst out laughing.
The count, by his guests, went into the drawing room.
"Well, you old sinner," she went on, turning to the count who was kissing her hand, "you're feeling dull in Moscow, I daresay?
She turned away and gave her hand to the count, who could hardly keep from laughing.
From behind the crystal decanters and fruit vases, the count kept glancing at his wife and her tall cap with its light-blue ribbons, and busily filled his neighbors' glasses, not neglecting his own.
At the ladies' end an even chatter of voices was heard all the time, at the men's end the voices sounded louder and louder, especially that of the colonel of hussars who, growing more and more flushed, ate and drank so much that the count held him up as a pattern to the other guests.
"It's all about the war," the count shouted down the table.
The band again struck up, the count and countess kissed, and the guests, leaving their seats, went up to "congratulate" the countess, and reached across the table to clink glasses with the count, with the children, and with one another.
The count, holding his cards fanwise, kept himself with difficulty from dropping into his usual after-dinner nap, and laughed at everything.
First came Marya Dmitrievna and the count, both with merry countenances.
The count danced well and knew it.
All were watching the count and Marya Dmitrievna.
In the intervals of the dance the count, breathing deeply, waved and shouted to the musicians to play faster.
While in the Rostovs' ballroom the sixth anglaise was being danced, to a tune in which the weary musicians blundered, and while tired footmen and cooks were getting the supper, Count Bezukhov had a sixth stroke.
I hear the count no longer recognizes anyone.
The count," pointing to his portrait, "definitely demanded that he should be called."
But... in short, the fact is... you know yourself that last winter the count made a will by which he left all his property, not to us his direct heirs, but to Pierre.
Last winter she wheedled herself in here and told the count such vile, disgraceful things about us, especially about Sophie--I can't repeat them--that it made the count quite ill and he would not see us for a whole fortnight.
"Perhaps the count did not ask for me," said Pierre when he reached the landing.
It was the same as Pierre remembered it three months before, when the count had sent him to Petersburg.
When Pierre came up the count was gazing straight at him, but with a look the significance of which could not be understood by mortal man.
While the count was being turned over, one of his arms fell back helplessly and he made a fruitless effort to pull it forward.
Around the table all who were at Count Bezukhov's house that night had gathered to fortify themselves.
You know how fond the count is of her.
On waking in the morning she told the Rostovs and all her acquaintances the details of Count Bezukhov's death.
She said the count had died as she would herself wish to die, that his end was not only touching but edifying.
It uplifts the soul to see such men as the old count and his worthy son, said she.
The chief news, about which all Moscow gossips, is the death of old Count Bezukhov, and his inheritance.
The news of Count Bezukhov's death reached us before your letter and my father was much affected by it.
He says the count was the last representative but one of the great century, and that it is his own turn now, but that he will do all he can to let his turn come as late as possible.
Here are two letters from Count Nostitz and here is one from His Highness the Archduke Ferdinand and here are these," he said, handing him several papers, "make a neat memorandum in French out of all this, showing all the news we have had of the movements of the Austrian army, and then give it to his excellency."
Count!... Don't ruin a young fellow... here is this wretched money, take it...
"Count..." said Telyanin drawing nearer to him.
"Come, that's right, Count!" cried the staff captain, turning round and clapping Rostov on the shoulder with his big hand.
"That's better, Count," said the staff captain, beginning to address Rostov by his title, as if in recognition of his confession.
Not only occupied, but Bonaparte is at Schonbrunn, and the count, our dear Count Vrbna, goes to him for orders.
Not only occupied, but Bonaparte is at Schonbrunn, and the count, our dear Count Vrbna, goes to him for orders.
"Count Lichtenfels was here this morning," Bilibin continued, "and showed me a letter in which the parade of the French in Vienna was fully described: Prince Murat et tout le tremblement...
Count Nostitz, the Austrian general occupying the advanced posts, believed Murat's emissary and retired, leaving Bagration's division exposed.
Pierre, on unexpectedly becoming Count Bezukhov and a rich man, felt himself after his recent loneliness and freedom from cares so beset and preoccupied that only in bed was he able to be by himself.
He was always hearing such words as: "With your remarkable kindness," or, "With your excellent heart," "You are yourself so honorable Count," or, "Were he as clever as you," and so on, till he began sincerely to believe in his own exceptional kindness and extraordinary intelligence, the more so as in the depth of his heart it had always seemed to him that he really was very kind and intelligent.
From the death of Count Bezukhov he did not let go his hold of the lad.
The aunt was just speaking of a collection of snuffboxes that had belonged to Pierre's father, Count Bezukhov, and showed them her own box.
Not till midwinter was the count at last handed a letter addressed in his son's handwriting.
Anna Mikhaylovna, who always knew everything that passed in the house, on hearing of the arrival of the letter went softly into the room and found the count with it in his hand, sobbing and laughing at the same time.
The count sobbed yet more.
Anna Mikhaylovna sat down beside him, with her own handkerchief wiped the tears from his eyes and from the letter, then having dried her own eyes she comforted the count, and decided that at dinner and till teatime she would prepare the countess, and after tea, with God's help, would inform her.
Each time that these hints began to make the countess anxious and she glanced uneasily at the count and at Anna Mikhaylovna, the latter very adroitly turned the conversation to insignificant matters.
"It's because she was in love with that fat one in spectacles" (that was how Petya described his namesake, the new Count Bezukhov) "and now she's in love with that singer" (he meant Natasha's Italian singing master), "that's why she's ashamed!"
"Don't come in," she said to the old count who was following her.
The count put his ear to the keyhole and listened.
"It is done!" she said to the count, pointing triumphantly to the countess, who sat holding in one hand the snuffbox with its portrait and in the other the letter, and pressing them alternately to her lips.
When she saw the count, she stretched out her arms to him, embraced his bald head, over which she again looked at the letter and the portrait, and in order to press them again to her lips, she slightly pushed away the bald head.
This was quite true, but the count, the countess, and Natasha looked at her reproachfully.
How strange, how extraordinary, how joyful it seemed, that her son, the scarcely perceptible motion of whose tiny limbs she had felt twenty years ago within her, that son about whom she used to have quarrels with the too indulgent count, that son who had first learned to say "pear" and then "granny," that this son should now be away in a foreign land amid strange surroundings, a manly warrior doing some kind of man's work of his own, without help or guidance.
For more than a week preparations were being made, rough drafts of letters to Nicholas from all the household were written and copied out, while under the supervision of the countess and the solicitude of the count, money and all things necessary for the uniform and equipment of the newly commissioned officer were collected.
As for us, Count, we get along on our pay.
Would you believe it, Count, I was not at all alarmed, because I knew I was right.
So, Count, there never is any negligence in my company, and so my conscience was at ease.
That's the way, Count, said Berg, lighting his pipe and emitting rings of smoke.
But this is what we'll do: I have a good friend, an adjutant general and an excellent fellow, Prince Dolgorukov; and though you may not know it, the fact is that now Kutuzov with his staff and all of us count for nothing.
Do you know the tale about him and Count Markov?
Count Markov was the only man who knew how to handle him.
At six in the evening, Kutuzov went to the Emperor's headquarters and after staying but a short time with the Tsar went to see the grand marshal of the court, Count Tolstoy.
Kutuzov looked sternly at his adjutant and, after a pause, replied: I think the battle will be lost, and so I told Count Tolstoy and asked him to tell the Emperor.
"Count Ilya Rostov's son?" asked Dolgorukov.
Count! shouted Berg who ran up from the other side as eager as Boris.
Some said the report that the Emperor was wounded was correct, others that it was not, and explained the false rumor that had spread by the fact that the Emperor's carriage had really galloped from the field of battle with the pale and terrified Ober-Hofmarschal Count Tolstoy, who had ridden out to the battlefield with others in the Emperor's suite.
The young count! he cried, recognizing his young master.
Sonya, Natasha, Petya, Anna Mikhaylovna, Vera, and the old count were all hugging him, and the serfs, men and maids, flocked into the room, exclaiming and oh-ing and ah-ing.
"Vasili Denisov, your son's friend," he said, introducing himself to the count, who was looking inquiringly at him.
I know, I know, said the count, kissing and embracing Denisov.
At the beginning of March, old Count Ilya Rostov was very busy arranging a dinner in honor of Prince Bagration at the English Club.
A light footstep and the clinking of spurs were heard at the door, and the young count, handsome, rosy, with a dark little mustache, evidently rested and made sleeker by his easy life in Moscow, entered the room.
The old count pretended to be angry.
And the count turned to the cook, who, with a shrewd and respectful expression, looked observantly and sympathetically at the father and son.
"That's it, that's it!" exclaimed the count, and gaily seizing his son by both hands, he cried, "Now I've got you, so take the sleigh and pair at once, and go to Bezukhov's, and tell him 'Count Ilya has sent you to ask for strawberries and fresh pineapples.'
Though she came upon the count in his dressing gown every day, he invariably became confused and begged her to excuse his costume.
"No matter at all, my dear count," she said, meekly closing her eyes.
The count was delighted at Anna Mikhaylovna's taking upon herself one of his commissions and ordered the small closed carriage for her.
The men who set the tone in conversation--Count Rostopchin, Prince Yuri Dolgorukov, Valuev, Count Markov, and Prince Vyazemski--did not show themselves at the club, but met in private houses in intimate circles, and the Moscovites who took their opinions from others--Ilya Rostov among them--remained for a while without any definite opinion on the subject of the war and without leaders.
The largest circles formed round Count Rostopchin, Valuev, and Naryshkin.
The old count came up to them and pressed Dolokhov's hand.
Count Ilya Rostov, laughing and repeating the words, Make way, dear boy!
Count Ilya, again thrusting his way through the crowd, went out of the drawing room and reappeared a minute later with another committeeman, carrying a large silver salver which he presented to Prince Bagration.
And Count Rostov, glancing angrily at the author who went on reading his verses, bowed to Bagration.
After the fish, which made a certain sensation, the count exchanged glances with the other committeemen.
The old count rose once more, glanced at a note lying beside his plate, and proposed a toast, "To the health of the hero of our last campaign, Prince Peter Ivanovich Bagration!" and again his blue eyes grew moist.
As soon as the singing was over, another and another toast was proposed and Count Ilya Rostov became more and more moved, more glass was smashed, and the shouting grew louder.
At that toast, the count took out his handkerchief and, covering his face, wept outright.
"I should not be doing my duty, Count," he said in timid tones, "and should not justify your confidence and the honor you have done me in choosing me for your second, if at this grave, this very grave, moment I did not tell you the whole truth.
You know, Count, it is much more honorable to admit one's mistake than to let matters become irreparable.
The night after the duel he did not go to his bedroom but, as he often did, remained in his father's room, that huge room in which Count Bezukhov had died.
"Yes, Count," she would say, "he is too noble and pure-souled for our present, depraved world.
Now tell me, Count, was it right, was it honorable, of Bezukhov?
I know you understand Fedya, my dear count; that, believe me, is why I am so fond of you.
"My dear count, you were one of my best pupils--you must dance," said little Iogel coming up to Nicholas.
On the previous Sunday the old count had given his son two thousand rubles, and though he always disliked speaking of money difficulties had told Nicholas that this was all he could let him have till May, and asked him to be more economical this time.
"You owe forty-three thousand, Count," said Dolokhov, and stretching himself he rose from the table.
A quarter of an hour later the old count came in from his club, cheerful and contented.
"Well--had a good time?" said the old count, smiling gaily and proudly at his son.
The count was lighting his pipe and did not notice his son's condition.
Nonsense! cried the count, suddenly reddening with an apoplectic flush over neck and nape as old people do.
"Well!..." said the old count, spreading out his arms and sinking helplessly on the sofa.
The old count cast down his eyes on hearing his son's words and began bustlingly searching for something.
Hand this to Count Willarski (he took out his notebook and wrote a few words on a large sheet of paper folded in four).
"I have come to you with a message and an offer, Count," he said without sitting down.
"One more question, Count," he said, "which I beg you to answer in all sincerity--not as a future Mason but as an honest man: have you renounced your former convictions--do you believe in God?"
Despite Count Bezukhov's enormous wealth, since he had come into an income which was said to amount to five hundred thousand rubles a year, Pierre felt himself far poorer than when his father had made him an allowance of ten thousand rubles.
The marshal, a Count Rostov, hasn't sent half his contingent.
Boris lodged with another adjutant, the Polish Count Zhilinski.
On the evening of the twenty-fourth of June, Count Zhilinski arranged a supper for his French friends.
This Marshal was Count Ilya Rostov, and in the middle of May Prince Andrew went to visit him.
In 1809 Count Ilya Rostov was living at Otradnoe just as he had done in former years, that is, entertaining almost the whole province with hunts, theatricals, dinners, and music.
Next morning, having taken leave of no one but the count, and not waiting for the ladies to appear, Prince Andrew set off for home.
A few days later Prince Andrew received notice that he was to go to see the Minister of War, Count Arakcheev.
On the appointed day Prince Andrew entered Count Arakcheev's waiting room at nine in the morning.
Count Arakcheev's anteroom had quite a special character.
The day after his interview with Count Arakcheev, Prince Andrew spent the evening at Count Kochubey's.
Just the same as now--I ask you, Count--who will be heads of the departments when everybody has to pass examinations?
Count Kochubey did not finish.
The largest of these was the French circle of the Napoleonic alliance, the circle of Count Rumyantsev and Caulaincourt.
Among the men who very soon became frequent visitors at the Rostovs' house in Petersburg were Boris, Pierre whom the count had met in the street and dragged home with him, and Berg who spent whole days at the Rostovs' and paid the eldest daughter, Countess Vera, the attentions a young man pays when he intends to propose.
The old count felt this most.
At one time the count thought of giving her the Ryazan estate or of selling a forest, at another time of borrowing money on a note of hand.
The count was so disconcerted by this long-foreseen inquiry that without consideration he gave the first reply that came into his head.
Berg smiled meekly, kissed the count on the shoulder, and said that he was very grateful, but that it was impossible for him to arrange his new life without receiving thirty thousand in ready money.
"Or at least twenty thousand, Count," he added, "and then a note of hand for only sixty thousand."
"Yes, yes, all right!" said the count hurriedly.
These visits of Natasha's at night before the count returned from his club were one of the greatest pleasures of both mother, and daughter.
"Whenever will you be ready?" asked the count coming to the door.
A minute later they let the count in.
"Oo-oo, my beauty!" exclaimed the count, "she looks better than any of you!"
The host also followed Natasha with his eyes and asked the count which was his daughter.
The count was at the other end of the room.
When the cotillion was over the old count in his blue coat came up to the dancers.
"How delightful it is, Count!" said she.
Unfortunately she could not grant my request, but I hope, Count, I shall be more fortunate with you, he said with a smile.
But don't be late, Count, if I may venture to ask; about ten minutes to eight, please.
Just then Count Bezukhov was announced.
The general sat down by Count Ilya Rostov, who was next to himself the most important guest.
Pierre, as one of the principal guests, had to sit down to boston with Count Rostov, the general, and the colonel.
Now you know, Count," she said to Pierre, "even our dear cousin Boris, who, between ourselves, was very far gone in the land of tenderness..."
He could talk about rural economy with the count, fashions with the countess and Natasha, and about albums and fancywork with Sonya.
Sometimes the old count would come up, kiss Prince Andrew, and ask his advice about Petya's education or Nicholas' service.
The count was so weak, and trusted Mitenka so much, and was so good-natured, that everybody took advantage of him and things were going from bad to worse.
Then with no less fear and delight they saw how the young count, red in the face and with bloodshot eyes, dragged Mitenka out by the scruff of the neck and applied his foot and knee to his behind with great agility at convenient moments between the words, shouting, Be off!
The young count paid no heed to them, but, breathing hard, passed by with resolute strides and went into the house.
"No, my dear boy" (the count, too, felt embarrassed.
The old count had always kept up an enormous hunting establishment.
The old count's horse, a sorrel gelding called Viflyanka, was led by the groom in attendance on him, while the count himself was to drive in a small trap straight to a spot reserved for him.
Before the hunt, by old custom, the count had drunk a silver cupful of mulled brandy, taken a snack, and washed it down with half a bottle of his favorite Bordeaux.
"Well, Nastasya Ivanovna!" whispered the count, winking at him.
"Hush!" whispered the count and turned to Simon.
"With young Count Peter, by the Zharov rank grass," answered Simon, smiling.
"To search far..." repeated the count, evidently sorry Simon had not said more.
After listening a few moments in silence, the count and his attendant convinced themselves that the hounds had separated into two packs: the sound of the larger pack, eagerly giving tongue, began to die away in the distance, the other pack rushed by the wood past the count, and it was with this that Daniel's voice was heard calling ulyulyu.
Simon sighed and stooped to straighten the leash a young borzoi had entangled; the count too sighed and, noticing the snuffbox in his hand, opened it and took a pinch.
The count started and dropped the snuffbox.
The count and Simon were looking at him.
The count turned and saw on his right Mitka staring at him with eyes starting out of his head, raising his cap and pointing before him to the other side.
The count and Simon galloped out of the wood and saw on their left a wolf which, softly swaying from side to side, was coming at a quiet lope farther to the left to the very place where they were standing.
When he caught sight of the count his eyes flashed lightning.
What sportsmen! and as if scorning to say more to the frightened and shamefaced count, he lashed the heaving flanks of his sweating chestnut gelding with all the anger the count had aroused and flew off after the hounds.
Old Count Rostov also rode up and touched the wolf.
The count remembered the wolf he had let slip and his encounter with Daniel.
The old count went home, and Natasha and Petya promised to return very soon, but as it was still early the hunt went farther.
"So in your parts, too, the harvest is nothing to boast of, Count?" he went on, continuing the conversation they had begun.
For myself, I can tell you, Count, I enjoy riding in company such as this... what could be better?
The count and countess did not know where they were and were very anxious, said one of the men.
Count Ilya Rostov had resigned the position of Marshal of the Nobility because it involved him in too much expense, but still his affairs did not improve.
They had not as many visitors as before, but the old habits of life without which the count and countess could not conceive of existence remained unchanged.
There was still the hunting establishment which Nicholas had enlarged.
The count moved in his affairs as in a huge net, trying not to believe that he was entangled but becoming more and more so at every step, and feeling too feeble to break the meshes or to set to work carefully and patiently to disentangle them.
The old count was resting in his study.
"Ah, here she is!" said the old count, when he saw Natasha enter.
The count sat in the ballroom, smiling radiantly and applauding the players.
"That's right, my dear," chimed in the old count, thoroughly aroused.
It was decided that the count must not go, but that if Louisa Ivanovna (Madame Schoss) would go with them, the young ladies might go to the Melyukovs', Sonya, generally so timid and shy, more urgently than anyone begging Louisa Ivanovna not to refuse.
The count was more perturbed than ever by the condition of his affairs, which called for some decisive action.
So the countess remained in the country, and the count, taking Sonya and Natasha with him, went to Moscow at the end of January.
These guests--the famous Count Rostopchin, Prince Lopukhin with his nephew, General Chatrov an old war comrade of the prince's, and of the younger generation Pierre and Boris Drubetskoy--awaited the prince in the drawing room.
Count Rostopchin alone kept the conversation going, now relating the latest town news, and now the latest political gossip.
"Bonaparte treats Europe as a pirate does a captured vessel," said Count Rostopchin, repeating a phrase he had uttered several times before.
Count Rostopchin paused, feeling that he had reached the limit beyond which censure was impossible.
"I have read our protests about the Oldenburg affair and was surprised how badly the Note was worded," remarked Count Rostopchin in the casual tone of a man dealing with a subject quite familiar to him.
"Does it matter, Count, how the Note is worded," he asked, "so long as its substance is forcible?"
"My dear fellow, with our five hundred thousand troops it should be easy to have a good style," returned Count Rostopchin.
"How can we fight the French, Prince?" said Count Rostopchin.
"Oh, my God, Count, there are moments when I would marry anybody!" she cried suddenly to her own surprise and with tears in her voice.
At the end of January old Count Rostov went to Moscow with Natasha and Sonya.
Now take off your things, quick! she shouted to the count who was going to kiss her hand.
And what have you to do yourself? she asked the count sternly.
The count did not set out cheerfully on this visit, at heart he felt afraid.
"There, my dear princess, I've brought you my songstress," said the count, bowing and looking round uneasily as if afraid the old prince might appear.
The princess told the count that she would be delighted, and only begged him to stay longer at Anna Semenovna's, and he departed.
When the count returned, Natasha was impolitely pleased and hastened to get away: at that moment she hated the stiff, elderly princess, who could place her in such an embarrassing position and had spent half an hour with her without once mentioning Prince Andrew.
When the count was already leaving the room, Princess Mary went up hurriedly to Natasha, took her by the hand, and said with a deep sigh:
Marya Dmitrievna, who knew how the prince had received the Rostovs, pretended not to notice how upset Natasha was and jested resolutely and loudly at table with the count and the other guests.
The count got out helped by the footmen, and, passing among men and women who were entering and the program sellers, they all three went along the corridor to the first row of boxes.
The count, laughing, nudged the blushing Sonya and pointed to her former adorer.
She was the Countess Bezukhova, Pierre's wife, and the count, who knew everyone in society, leaned over and spoke to her.
Count Pierre never used to forget us.
Count Rostov resumed his seat.
Shinshin, lowering his voice, began to tell the count of some intrigue of Kuragin's in Moscow, and Natasha tried to overhear it just because he had said she was "charmante."
When the second act was over Countess Bezukhova rose, turned to the Rostovs' box--her whole bosom completely exposed--beckoned the old count with a gloved finger, and paying no attention to those who had entered her box began talking to him with an amiable smile.
Dear count, you must let me look after your daughters!
Marya Dmitrievna talked to the count about something which they concealed from Natasha.
No, this is really beyond anything, my dear count, said she to Count Rostov who had followed her in.
No, this is really beyond anything, my dear count, said she to Count Rostov who had followed her in.
Count Rostov took the girls to Countess Bezukhova's.
Count Rostov was displeased to see that the company consisted almost entirely of men and women known for the freedom of their conduct.
The count decided not to sit down to cards or let his girls out of his sight and to get away as soon as Mademoiselle George's performance was over.
Immediately after greeting the count he went up to Natasha and followed her.
Anatole moved a chair for Natasha and was about to sit down beside her, but the count, who never lost sight of her, took the seat himself.
"Come, come, Natasha!" said the count, as he turned back for his daughter.
The count wished to go home, but Helene entreated him not to spoil her improvised ball, and the Rostovs stayed on.
After breakfast, which was her best time, Marya Dmitrievna sat down in her armchair and called Natasha and the count to her.
Count Rostov approved of this suggestion, appreciating its reasonableness.
On Friday the Rostovs were to return to the country, but on Wednesday the count went with the prospective purchaser to his estate near Moscow.
On the day the count left, Sonya and Natasha were invited to a big dinner party at the Karagins', and Marya Dmitrievna took them there.
The day before the count was to return, Sonya noticed that Natasha sat by the drawing-room window all the morning as if expecting something and that she made a sign to an officer who drove past, whom Sonya took to be Anatole.
The count is away.
Next day Count Rostov returned from his estate near Moscow in time for lunch as he had promised.
When the count came to see her she turned anxiously round at the sound of a man's footstep, and then her face resumed its cold and malevolent expression.
From the pretense of illness, from his daughter's distress, and by the embarrassed faces of Sonya and Marya Dmitrievna, the count saw clearly that something had gone wrong during his absence, but it was so terrible for him to think that anything disgraceful had happened to his beloved daughter, and he so prized his own cheerful tranquillity, that he avoided inquiries and tried to assure himself that nothing particularly had happened; and he was only dissatisfied that her indisposition delayed their return to the country.
Pierre--only now realizing the danger to the old count, Nicholas, and Prince Andrew-- promised to do as she wished.
Mind, the count knows nothing.
Pierre met the old count, who seemed nervous and upset.
It's hard, Count, hard to manage daughters in their mother's absence....
Pierre saw that the count was much upset and tried to change the subject, but the count returned to his troubles.
And clutching the spare gray locks on his temples the count left the room.
Pierre saw the distracted count, and Sonya, who had a tear-stained face, but he could not see Natasha.
Natasha was in bed, the count at the club, and Pierre, after giving the letters to Sonya, went to Marya Dmitrievna who was interested to know how Prince Andrew had taken the news.
"Natasha insists on seeing Count Peter Kirilovich," said she.
On the tenth of June, * coming up with the army, he spent the night in apartments prepared for him on the estate of a Polish count in the Vilkavisski forest.
Yesterday I learned that, despite the loyalty with which I have kept my engagements with Your Majesty, your troops have crossed the Russian frontier, and I have this moment received from Petersburg a note, in which Count Lauriston informs me, as a reason for this aggression, that Your Majesty has considered yourself to be in a state of war with me from the time Prince Kuragin asked for his passports.
In the evening, when Prince Andrew went to him and, trying to rouse him, began to tell him of the young Count Kamensky's campaign, the old prince began unexpectedly to talk about Princess Mary, blaming her for her superstitions and her dislike of Mademoiselle Bourienne, who, he said, was the only person really attached to him.
Prince Andrew's eyes were still following Pfuel out of the room when Count Bennigsen entered hurriedly, and nodding to Bolkonski, but not pausing, went into the study, giving instructions to his adjutant as he went.
Young Count Toll objected to the Swedish general's views more warmly than anyone else, and in the course of the dispute drew from his side pocket a well-filled notebook, which he asked permission to read to them.
Count Ostermann with his suite rode up behind the squadron, halted, spoke to the commander of the regiment, and rode up the hill to the guns.
When sent for by Count Ostermann, Rostov, remembering that he had charged without orders, felt sure his commander was sending for him to punish him for breach of discipline.
Let him that hath understanding count the number of the beast: for it is the number of a man; and his number is Six hundred threescore and six.
"Count, is it wrong of me to sing?" she said blushing, and fixing her eyes inquiringly on him.
"No, after dinner," said the old count, evidently expecting much enjoyment from that reading.
And how about you, Count Peter Kirilych?
If they call up the militia, you too will have to mount a horse, remarked the old count, addressing Pierre.
After dinner the count settled himself comfortably in an easy chair and with a serious face asked Sonya, who was considered an excellent reader, to read the appeal.
The count listened with closed eyes, heaving abrupt sighs at certain passages.
But the count had already recovered from his excitement.
Be quiet, I tell you! cried the count, with a glance at his wife, who had turned pale and was staring fixedly at her son.
There, there, I tell you, and the count moved to go out of the room, taking the papers, probably to reread them in his study before having a nap.
"Well, then, au revoir!" said the count, and went out of the room.
Petya decided to go straight to where the Emperor was and to explain frankly to some gentleman-in-waiting (he imagined the Emperor to be always surrounded by gentlemen-in-waiting) that he, Count Rostov, in spite of his youth wished to serve his country; that youth could be no hindrance to loyalty, and that he was ready to...
Count Ilya Rostov smiled blandly and nodded approval.
Count Rostov's mouth watered with pleasure and he nudged Pierre, but Pierre wanted to speak himself.
Count Rostov at the back of the crowd was expressing approval; several persons, briskly turning a shoulder to the orator at the end of a phrase, said:
Many voices shouted and talked at the same time, so that Count Rostov had not time to signify his approval of them all, and the group increased, dispersed, re-formed, and then moved with a hum of talk into the largest hall and to the big table.
At that moment Count Rostopchin with his protruding chin and alert eyes, wearing the uniform of a general with sash over his shoulder, entered the room, stepping briskly to the front of the crowd of gentry.
"Yes, most precious... a royal word," said Count Rostov, with a sob.
Having heard that Count Mamonov was furnishing a regiment, Bezukhov at once informed Rostopchin that he would give a thousand men and their maintenance.
Now, is it suitable that Count Kutuzov, the oldest general in Russia, should preside at that tribunal?
And he is so unreasonable, the count himself I mean.
You know, Count, such knights as you are only found in Madame de Souza's novels.
Come now, Count, you know!
The first declared that the report that Count Rostopchin had forbidden people to leave Moscow was false; on the contrary he was glad that ladies and tradesmen's wives were leaving the city.
The second broadsheet stated that our headquarters were at Vyazma, that Count Wittgenstein had defeated the French, but that as many of the inhabitants of Moscow wished to be armed, weapons were ready for them at the arsenal: sabers, pistols, and muskets which could be had at a low price.
Count Rostopchin writes that he will stake his life on it that the enemy will not enter Moscow.
"Oh, that count of yours!" said the princess malevolently.
The Emperor had written to Count Rostopchin as follows:
You know, Count, there'll be a battle tomorrow.
You will see everything best from where Count Bennigsen will be.
It is not at all what Count Bennigsen intended.
Boris said a few words to his general, and Count Bennigsen turned to Pierre and proposed that he should ride with him along the line.
"It's time, Count; it's time!" cried the adjutant.
"Why have you come here, Count?" he asked with a smile.
"You don't seem to be used to riding, Count?" remarked the adjutant.
I congratulate you, Count, on your baptism of fire!
A great crowd of generals gathered round him, and Count Rostopchin, who had come out from Moscow, joined them.
On the other side sat Count Ostermann- Tolstoy, seemingly absorbed in his own thoughts.
The same thing that took place in Moscow had happened in all the towns and villages on Russian soil beginning with Smolensk, without the participation of Count Rostopchin and his broadsheets.
Close to the gates of the city he was met by Count Rostopchin's adjutant.
The count wants to see you particularly.
Count Rostopchin had only that morning returned to town from his summer villa at Sokolniki.
Vasilchikov and Platov had already seen the count and explained to him that it was impossible to defend Moscow and that it would have to be surrendered.
Though this news was being concealed from the inhabitants, the officials--the heads of the various government departments--knew that Moscow would soon be in the enemy's hands, just as Count Rostopchin himself knew it, and to escape personal responsibility they had all come to the governor to ask how they were to deal with their various departments.
"The count had a sty," replied the adjutant smiling, "and was very much upset when I told him people had come to ask what was the matter with him.
The count was informed of it.
And so it was reported to the count, who sent for the man.
And the count wanted him to say it was from Klyucharev?
But the point is that the count was much annoyed.
The count had the father fetched, but the fellow stuck to it.
When he entered the private room Count Rostopchin, puckering his face, was rubbing his forehead and eyes with his hand.
"But what did Klyucharev do wrong, Count?" asked Pierre.
When he awoke next morning the major-domo came to inform him that a special messenger, a police officer, had come from Count Rostopchin to know whether Count Bezukhov had left or was leaving the town.
After many consultations and conversations, the count at last devised means to tranquillize her.
The head of the family, Count Ilya Rostov, continually drove about the city collecting the current rumors from all sides and gave superficial and hasty orders at home about the preparations for their departure.
The count and countess turned to her when they had any orders to give.
"We've stayed too long!" said the count with involuntary vexation.
And the count gave a similar order to the major-domo and the servants.
The old count, suddenly setting to work, kept passing from the yard to the house and back again, shouting confused instructions to the hurrying people, and flurrying them still more.
The count had valuable Gobelin tapestries and Persian carpets in the house.
The count was not angry even when they told him that Natasha had countermanded an order of his, and the servants now came to her to ask whether a cart was sufficiently loaded, and whether it might be corded up.
The countess had fallen asleep and the count, having put off their departure till next morning, went to bed.
On waking up that morning Count Ilya Rostov left his bedroom softly, so as not to wake the countess who had fallen asleep only toward morning, and came out to the porch in his lilac silk dressing gown.
On seeing the count the major- domo made a significant and stern gesture to them both to go away.
"Well, Vasilich, is everything ready?" asked the count, and stroking his bald head he looked good-naturedly at the officer and the orderly and nodded to them.
Count, be so good as to allow me... for God's sake, to get into some corner of one of your carts!
"Oh, yes, yes, yes!" said the count hastily.
Well, what of it... do what's necessary... said the count, muttering some indefinite order.
The count looked around him.
They were all looking at the count and moving toward the porch.
The count went into the house with him, repeating his order not to refuse the wounded who asked for a lift.
The count spoke timidly, as he always did when talking of money matters.
Flourishing his arms in despair the count left the room without replying.
What business is it of yours? muttered the count angrily.
From the anteroom Berg ran with smooth though impatient steps into the drawing room, where he embraced the count, kissed the hands of Natasha and Sonya, and hastened to inquire after "Mamma's" health.
The count was about to say something, but evidently restrained himself.
"Hm..." said the count, and stopped.
The count frowned and coughed.
The count, pipe in hand, was pacing up and down the room, when Natasha, her face distorted by anger, burst in like a tempest and approached her mother with rapid steps.
The count stood still at the window and listened.
The count stood by the window and listened without turning round.
"The eggs... the eggs are teaching the hen," muttered the count through tears of joy, and he embraced his wife who was glad to hide her look of shame on his breast.
The count nodded affirmatively, and Natasha, at the rapid pace at which she used to run when playing at tag, ran through the ballroom to the anteroom and downstairs into the yard.
The phaeton was full of people and there was a doubt as to where Count Peter could sit.
The count was the first to rise, and with a loud sigh crossed himself before the icon.
Then the count embraced Mavra Kuzminichna and Vasilich, who were to remain in Moscow, and while they caught at his hand and kissed his shoulder he patted their backs lightly with some vaguely affectionate and comforting words.
"Oh, those servants!" said the count, swaying his head.
"What is the matter, Count?" asked the countess in a surprised and commiserating tone.
When he woke up on the morning after his return to Moscow and his interview with Count Rostopchin, he could not for some time make out where he was and what was expected of him.
The count--Count Ilya Andreevich Rostov.
The count--Count Ilya Andreevich Rostov.
"What did you want to see the count for?" she asked.
The superintendent of police, who had gone that morning by Count Rostopchin's orders to burn the barges and had in connection with that matter acquired a large sum of money which was at that moment in his pocket, on seeing a crowd bearing down upon him told his coachman to stop.
"Your honor..." replied the shopman in the frieze coat, "your honor, in accord with the proclamation of his highest excellency the count, they desire to serve, not sparing their lives, and it is not any kind of riot, but as his highest excellence said..."
"The count has not left, he is here, and an order will be issued concerning you," said the superintendent of police.
This letter requested the count to send police officers to guide the troops through the town, as the army was retreating to the Ryazan road beyond Moscow.
When later on in his memoirs Count Rostopchin explained his actions at this time, he repeatedly says that he was then actuated by two important considerations: to maintain tranquillity in Moscow and expedite the departure of the inhabitants.
"To preserve the tranquillity of the city," explains Count Rostopchin.
"To leave the town empty," explains Count Rostopchin.
If the government offices were removed, this was only done on the demand of officials to whom the count yielded reluctantly.
All that night Count Rostopchin issued orders, for which people came to him from all parts of Moscow.
Those about him had never seen the count so morose and irritable.
In reply to an inquiry about the convicts in the prison, Count Rostopchin shouted angrily at the governor:
Toward nine o'clock in the morning, when the troops were already moving through Moscow, nobody came to the count any more for instructions.
The count ordered his carriage that he might drive to Sokolniki, and sat in his study with folded hands, morose, sallow, and taciturn.
The superintendent of police, whom the crowd had stopped, went in to see him at the same time as an adjutant who informed the count that the horses were harnessed.
They were both pale, and the superintendent of police, after reporting that he had executed the instructions he had received, informed the count that an immense crowd had collected in the courtyard and wished to see him.
"Good morning, lads!" said the count briskly and loudly.
And the count stepped as briskly back into the room and slammed the door behind him.
Count Rostopchin was unable to reply and, turning obediently, went in the direction indicated.
When they reached the Myasnitski Street and could no longer hear the shouts of the mob, the count began to repent.
Having reached his country house and begun to give orders about domestic arrangements, the count grew quite tranquil.
Count Rostopchin was mentally preparing the angry and stinging reproaches he meant to address to Kutuzov for his deception.
Count Rostopchin suddenly grew pale as he had done when the crowd closed in on Vereshchagin.
The caleche flew over the ground as fast as the horses could draw it, but for a long time Count Rostopchin still heard the insane despairing screams growing fainter in the distance, while his eyes saw nothing but the astonished, frightened, bloodstained face of "the traitor" in the fur-lined coat.
It was Count Rostopchin.
And strange to say, the Governor of Moscow, the proud Count Rostopchin, took up a Cossack whip and went to the bridge where he began with shouts to drive on the carts that blocked the way.
The count will be calling and there's nobody there; go and gather the clothes together.
The valet, returning to the cottage, informed the count that Moscow was burning.
The count donned his dressing gown and went out to look.
The count returned and lay down behind the partition.
The count is pathetic, they say.
It was said that Prince Vasili and the old count had turned upon the Italian, but the latter had produced such letters from the unfortunate deceased that they had immediately let the matter drop.
As long as this news remained unofficial it was possible to doubt it, but the next day the following communication was received from Count Rostopchin:
You are Count Ilya Rostov's son?
There were a great many ladies and some of Nicholas' Moscow acquaintances, but there were no men who could at all vie with the cavalier of St. George, the hussar remount officer, the good-natured and well-bred Count Rostov.
But when on Sunday after church the footman announced in the drawing room that Count Rostov had called, the princess showed no confusion, only a slight blush suffused her cheeks and her eyes lit up with a new and radiant light.
In the next room sat the count and countess respectfully conversing with the prior, who was calling on them as old acquaintances and benefactors of the monastery.
The countess caressed the boy, and the old count came in and welcomed the princess.
"This is my niece," said the count, introducing Sonya--"You don't know her, Princess?"
And so you have met Count Nicholas, Mary?
The old count cried because he felt that before long, he, too, must take the same terrible step.
Only Count Orlov-Denisov with his Cossacks (the least important detachment of all) got to his appointed place at the right time.
Toward dawn, Count Orlov-Denisov, who had dozed off, was awakened by a deserter from the French army being brought to him.
Count Orlov-Denisov consulted his fellow officers.
They disappeared into the forest, and Count Orlov-Denisov, having seen Grekov off, returned, shivering from the freshness of the early dawn and excited by what he had undertaken on his own responsibility, and began looking at the enemy camp, now just visible in the deceptive light of dawn and the dying campfires.
"Oh, it is really too late," said Count Orlov, looking at the camp.
"They can still be called back," said one of his suite, who like Count Orlov felt distrustful of the adventure when he looked at the enemy's camp.
When Grekov returned, Count Orlov-Denisov, excited both by the abandoned attempt and by vainly awaiting the infantry columns that still did not appear, as well as by the proximity of the enemy, resolved to advance.
The battle of Tarutino obviously did not attain the aim Toll had in view--to lead the troops into action in the order prescribed by the dispositions; nor that which Count Orlov-Denisov may have had in view-- to take Murat prisoner; nor the result of immediately destroying the whole corps, which Bennigsen and others may have had in view; nor the aim of the officer who wished to go into action to distinguish himself; nor that of the Cossack who wanted more booty than he got, and so on.
What did it matter to anybody, and especially to him, whether or not they found out that their prisoner's name was Count Bezukhov?
Sonya and the count tried to replace Natasha but could not.
At the end of January Princess Mary left for Moscow, and the count insisted on Natasha's going with her to consult the doctors.
Having left Petersburg on the seventh of December with his suite--Count Tolstoy, Prince Volkonski, Arakcheev, and others--the Emperor reached Vilna on the eleventh, and in his traveling sleigh drove straight to the castle.
Kutuzov raised his head and looked for a long while into the eyes of Count Tolstoy, who stood before him holding a silver salver on which lay a small object.
And Count Rostopchin wrote proclamations.
He called on Count Rostopchin and on some acquaintances who were back in Moscow, and he intended to leave for Petersburg two days later.
The count and countess will be here in a few days.
"Do you take vodka, Count?" asked Princess Mary, and those words suddenly banished the shadows of the past.
We lived under the late count--the kingdom of heaven be his!--and we have lived under you too, without ever being wronged.
"Good-bye, Count," she said aloud.
Count Ilya Rostov died that same year and, as always happens, after the father's death the family group broke up.
"But why, Count, why?" she almost cried, unconsciously moving closer to him.
"I don't understand your why, Count," she continued, "but it's hard for me...
When she needed to cry, the deceased count would be the pretext.
"Don't count on it," Brennan said with a sigh.
I think that's an optimistic count of the number of participants.
On the count of three.
Not sure why you'd count at this point.
I'll count to three.
I'll count to ten.
I'll do as you ask, if you can make it to our bedchamber by the count of five.
Don't count him out.
The only thing I didn't count on was Darkyn giving me the choice of my power or Gabriel when I left Hell.
She gave in to the rush of desire, knowing that wherever he led, she could count on an utterly delightful experience.
I guess when you stop counting hours and days and just count months or years—
I.ll count to three.
Can we count you in?
"Kiki, I need a count of living and dead-dead Immortals!" he ordered.
He was silent for a ten-count, as if considering his options.
A quick count indicated they were still one goat short.
Take a count this afternoon after the hub's clear.
They sat is silence through one whole Count Basie take before Dean finally spoke.
The drive to Maid Marian Lane was becoming more familiar with each passing trip—no more need to count the blocks.
Now let's hang up on the count of three, okay?
He was able to count the number of people beyond his ability to manipulate on one hand: the Gods.
As nice as it would be for the Japan strategy to work in the developing world, I don't think these countries can count on it.
I say, let your affairs be as two or three, and not a hundred or a thousand; instead of a million count half a dozen, and keep your accounts on your thumb-nail.
"Yes, they are splendid, splendid youngsters," chimed in the count, who always solved questions that seemed to him perplexing by deciding that everything was splendid.
"Fetch them back, fetch them back!" said Count Orlov with sudden determination, looking at his watch.
During the last days of Pierre's stay in Orel his old masonic acquaintance Count Willarski, who had introduced him to the lodge in 1807, came to see him.
Thanks, I know we can count on you, Katie, but I think she'll be more comfortable staying at our house.
Count out the money and don't cheat like the last time.