During the years of his service—for the most part as an adjutant—Prince Andrey had seen the anterooms of many great personages, and the various characteristic types of such anterooms were very readily recognised by him. Count Araktcheev’s anteroom had quite a special character. The faces of the persons of no consequence who were awaiting their turns for an audience with Count Araktcheev betrayed a feeling of humiliation and servility; the faces of those of superior rank all wore an expression of general discomfort, concealed under a mask of ease and ridicule, of themselves and their position and the person they were waiting to see. Some of them walked up and down plunged in thought; others were laughing and whispering together, and Prince Andrey caught the nickname Sila Andreitch （Sila meaning Force or Violence）, and the words “the governor’ll give it you,” referring to Count Araktcheev. One general （a person of great consequence）, unmistakably chagrined at being kept waiting so long, sat with crossed legs, disdainfully smiling to himself.
But as soon as the door opened, all faces instantly betrayed one feeling only—terror.
Prince Andrey asked the adjutant on duty to mention his name again, but he received a sarcastic stare, and was told his turn would come in due course. After several persons had been let in and let out of the minister’s room by the adjutant, an officer was admitted at the dreadful door, whose abject and panic-stricken face had struck Prince Andrey. The officer’s audience lasted a long while. Suddenly the roar of a harsh voice was heard through the door, and the officer, with a white face and trembling lips, came out, and clutching at his head, crossed the anteroom. After that, Prince Andrey was conducted to the door, and the adjutant in a whisper said： “To the right, at the window.”
Prince Andrey went into a plain, neat study, and saw at the table a man of forty with a long waist, with a long, closely-cropped head, deep wrinkles, scowling brows over brown-green, dull eyes, and a red, over-hanging nose. Araktcheev turned his head towards him, without looking at him.
“What is it you are petitioning for？” asked Araktcheev.
“There is nothing that I am…petitioning for, your excellency,” Prince Andrey pronounced softly. Araktcheev’s eyes turned to him.
“Sit down,” said Araktcheev. “Prince Bolkonsky？”
“I have no petition to make, but his majesty the Tsar has graciously sent to your excellency a note submitted by me—”
“Be so good as to see, my dear sir; I have read your note,” Araktcheev interrupted, uttering only the first words civilly, again looking away from him, and relapsing more and more into a tone of grumbling contempt. “Is it new army regulations you propose？ There are regulations in plenty; no one will carry out the old ones. Nowadays every one’s drawing up regulations; it’s easier writing than doing.”
“I have come by the desire of his majesty the Tsar to learn from your excellency how you propose to deal with my project,” said Prince Andrey courteously.
“I have proposed a resolution in regard to your note, and have forwarded it to the committee. I do not approve,” said Araktcheev, getting up and taking a paper out of the writing-table. “Here.” He gave it to Prince Andrey. Right across the note had been scrawled, without punctuation or capital letters and with words misspelt： “Superficially compiled seeing that it’s drawn up in imitation of the French army regulations and needlessly departing from the standing orders.”
“To what committee has the note been referred？” asked Prince Andrey.
“To the Committee on Army Regulations, and I have proposed your honour being enrolled among its members. Only without salary.”
Prince Andrey smiled.
“I am not seeking a salary.”
“A member without salary,” repeated Araktcheev. “I wish you good day. Hey！ call！ who’s the next？” he shouted, as he bowed to Prince Andrey.
