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Updated: June 19, 2025
At the steps beside the coachman stood the familiar figure of the constable, Ilya Loshadin, with an old leather bag across his shoulder and no cap on his head, covered with snow all over, and his face was red and wet with perspiration. The footman who had come out to help the gentlemen and cover their legs looked at him sternly and said: "What are you standing here for, you old devil? Get away!"
"Ah, here she is!" he exclaimed laughing. "My pet, whose name day it is. My dear pet!" "Ma chere, there is a time for everything," said the countess with feigned severity. "You spoil her, Ilya," she added, turning to her husband. "How do you do, my dear? I wish you many happy returns of your name day," said the visitor. "What a charming child," she added, addressing the mother.
In the Caucasus I had kephir, and I used to carry kephir grains, and in America I, at least, could have kumiss or Ilya Ilich's lait caille. Look! I came here as Ponce de León to Florida to find youth, or to keep from growing older; in a word to escape anno Domini." I turned and looked at him. He was a venerable figure, but there was no sign of eighty years in him.
During the three days preceding the occupation of Moscow the whole Rostov family was absorbed in various activities. 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.
Facing them sat Pierre, beside Prince Nesvitski. Count Ilya Rostov with the other members of the committee sat facing Bagration and, as the very personification of Moscow hospitality, did the honors to the prince. His efforts had not been in vain. The dinner, both the Lenten and the other fare, was splendid, yet he could not feel quite at ease till the end of the meal.
"I am certain that she has put an end to her life and ... and that it was her voice, that it was she calling me ... to follow her there ... I recognised her voice.... Well, there is but one end to it." "But why didn't you marry her, Ilya Stepanitch?" I asked. "You ceased to love her?" "No; I still love her passionately." At this point I stared at Tyeglev.
Sasha, turning his head away to hide his angry despairing face, struggled to give a note of cordial welcome to his voice as he said: "It is jolly of you! Welcome to the cottage!" ILYA SERGEITCH PEPLOV and his wife Kleopatra Petrovna were standing at the door, listening greedily.
The old man looked at him blindly, not recognising his son at first. But afterwards he smiled, went up the steps, and gave his cheek to be kissed. It smelt of wax. "Eh?" said the old man. Ilya kissed him, laughed hilariously, and slapped him lightly on the shoulder: "It is a long time since we met, father. How are you?"
Dear Friend Ilya: There is always somebody or something that prevents me from answering your two letters, which are important and dear to me, especially the last. First it was Baturlin, then bad health, insomnia, then the arrival of D , the friend of H that I wrote you about.
'I will show you up, he said, 'for I can write to all the papers about you." "Then he was an author?" "Yes, Mr. Captain, and what an ungentlemanly visitor in an honourable house...." "Now then! Enough! I have told you already..." "Ilya Petrovitch!" the head clerk repeated significantly. The assistant glanced rapidly at him; the head clerk slightly shook his head.
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