Emma Watson Pussy
Books:
Anna Karenina
War And Peace
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livelier and
livelier. The other couples could not attract a moments attention
to their own evolutions and did not even try to do so. All were
watching the count and Marya Dmitrievna. Natasha kept pulling everyone
by sleeve or dress, urging them to "look at Papa!" though as it was
they never took their eyes off the couple. In the intervals of the
dance the count, breathing deeply, waved and shouted to the
musicians to play faster. Faster, faster, and faster; lightly, more
lightly, and yet more lightly whirled the count, flying round Marya
Dmitrievna, now on his toes, now on his heels; until, turning his
partner round to her seat, he executed the final pas, raising his soft
foot backwards, bowing his perspiring head, smiling and making a
wide sweep with his arm, amid a thunder of applause and laughter led
by Natasha. Both partners stood still, breathing heavily and wiping
their faces with their cambric handkerchiefs.
"Thats how we used to dance in our time, ma chere," said the count.
"That was a Daniel Cooper!" exclaimed Marya Dmitrievna, tucking up
her sleeves and puffing heavily.
CHAPTER XXI
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. The doctors pronounced recovery impossible. After a
mute confession, communion was administered to the dying man,
preparations made for the sacrament of unction, and in his house there
was the bustle and thrill of suspense usual at such moments. Outside
the house, beyond the gates, a group of undertakers, who hid
whenever a carriage drove up, waited in expectation of an important
order for an expensive funeral. The Military Governor of Moscow, who
had been assiduous in sending aides-de-camp to inquire after the
counts health, came himself that evening to bid a last farewell to
the celebrated grandee of Catherines court, Count Bezukhov.
The magnificent reception room was crowded. Everyone stood up
respectfully when the Military Governor, having stayed about half an
hour alone with the dying man, passed out, slightly acknowledging
their bows and trying to escape as quickly as possible from the
glances fixed on him by the doctors, clergy, and relatives of the
family. Prince Vasili, who had grown thinner and paler during the last
few days, escorted him to the door, repeating something to him several
times in low tones.
When the Military Governor had gone, Prince Vasili sat down all
alone on a chair in the ballroom, crossing one leg high over the
other, leaning his elbow on his knee and covering his face with his
hand. After sitting so for a while he rose, and, looking about him
with frightened eyes, went with unusually hurried steps down the
long corridor leading to the back of the house, to the room of the
eldest princess.
Those who were in the dimly lit reception room spoke in nervous
whispers, and, whenever anyone went into or came from the dying
mans room, grew silent and gazed with eyes full of curiosity or
expectancy at his door, which creaked slightly when opened.
"The limits of human life... are fixed and may not be oerpassed,"
said an old priest to a lady who had taken a seat beside him and was
listening naively to his words.
"I wonder, is it not too late to administer unction?" asked the
lady, adding the priests clerical title, as if she had no opinion
of her own on the subject.
"Ah, madam, it is a great sacrament," replied the priest, passing
his hand over the thin grizzled strands of hair combed back across his
bald head.
"Who was that? The Military Governor himself?" was being asked at
the other side of the room. "How young-looking he is!"
"Yes, and he is over sixty. I hear the count no longer recognizes
anyone. They wished to administer the sacrament of unction."
"I knew someone who received that sacrament seven times."
The second princess had just come from the sickroom with her eyes
red from weeping and sat down beside Dr. Lorrain, who was sitting in a
graceful pose under a portrait of Catherine, leaning his elbow on a
table.
"Beautiful," said the doctor in answer to a remark about the
weather. "The weather is beautiful, Princess; and besides, in Moscow
one feels as if one were in the country."
"Yes, indeed," replied the princess with a sigh. "So he may have
something to drink?"
Lorrain considered.
"Has he taken his medicine?"
"Yes."
The doctor glanced at his watch.
"Take a glass of boiled water and put a pinch
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