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const dumb = 'a'.repeat ( 4000000 ).replace ( /[\r\0]/g, '' ); // The seemingly useless regex here makes things go faster later on | |
const book = WarAndPeace.replace ( /[\r\0]/g, '' ); | |
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const WarAndPeace = ` | |
The Project Gutenberg EBook of War and Peace, by Leo Tolstoy | |
This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost | |
no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use | |
it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this | |
eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org | |
Title: War and Peace | |
Author: Leo Tolstoy | |
Translators: Louise and Aylmer Maude | |
Posting Date: January 10, 2009 [EBook #2600] | |
Last Updated: January 21, 2019 | |
Language: English | |
Character set encoding: UTF-8 | |
*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK WAR AND PEACE *** | |
An Anonymous Volunteer, and David Widger | |
WAR AND PEACE | |
By Leo Tolstoy/Tolstoi | |
CONTENTS | |
BOOK ONE: 1805 | |
CHAPTER I | |
CHAPTER II | |
CHAPTER III | |
CHAPTER IV | |
CHAPTER V | |
CHAPTER VI | |
CHAPTER VII | |
CHAPTER VIII | |
CHAPTER IX | |
CHAPTER X | |
CHAPTER XI | |
CHAPTER XII | |
CHAPTER XIII | |
CHAPTER XIV | |
CHAPTER XV | |
CHAPTER XVI | |
CHAPTER XVII | |
CHAPTER XVIII | |
CHAPTER XIX | |
CHAPTER XX | |
CHAPTER XXI | |
CHAPTER XXII | |
CHAPTER XXIII | |
CHAPTER XXIV | |
CHAPTER XXV | |
CHAPTER XXVI | |
CHAPTER XXVII | |
CHAPTER XXVIII | |
BOOK TWO: 1805 | |
CHAPTER I | |
CHAPTER II | |
CHAPTER III | |
CHAPTER IV | |
CHAPTER V | |
CHAPTER VI | |
CHAPTER VII | |
CHAPTER VIII | |
CHAPTER IX | |
CHAPTER X | |
CHAPTER XI | |
CHAPTER XII | |
CHAPTER XIII | |
CHAPTER XIV | |
CHAPTER XV | |
CHAPTER XVI | |
CHAPTER XVII | |
CHAPTER XVIII | |
CHAPTER XIX | |
CHAPTER XX | |
CHAPTER XXI | |
BOOK THREE: 1805 | |
CHAPTER I | |
CHAPTER II | |
CHAPTER III | |
CHAPTER IV | |
CHAPTER V | |
CHAPTER VI | |
CHAPTER VII | |
CHAPTER VIII | |
CHAPTER IX | |
CHAPTER X | |
CHAPTER XI | |
CHAPTER XII | |
CHAPTER XIII | |
CHAPTER XIV | |
CHAPTER XV | |
CHAPTER XVI | |
CHAPTER XVII | |
CHAPTER XVIII | |
CHAPTER XIX | |
BOOK FOUR: 1806 | |
CHAPTER I | |
CHAPTER II | |
CHAPTER III | |
CHAPTER IV | |
CHAPTER V | |
CHAPTER VI | |
CHAPTER VII | |
CHAPTER VIII | |
CHAPTER IX | |
CHAPTER X | |
CHAPTER XI | |
CHAPTER XII | |
CHAPTER XIII | |
CHAPTER XIV | |
CHAPTER XV | |
CHAPTER XVI | |
BOOK FIVE: 1806 - 07 | |
CHAPTER I | |
CHAPTER II | |
CHAPTER III | |
CHAPTER IV | |
CHAPTER V | |
CHAPTER VI | |
CHAPTER VII | |
CHAPTER VIII | |
CHAPTER IX | |
CHAPTER X | |
CHAPTER XI | |
CHAPTER XII | |
CHAPTER XIII | |
CHAPTER XIV | |
CHAPTER XV | |
CHAPTER XVI | |
CHAPTER XVII | |
CHAPTER XVIII | |
CHAPTER XIX | |
CHAPTER XX | |
CHAPTER XXI | |
CHAPTER XXII | |
BOOK SIX: 1808 - 10 | |
CHAPTER I | |
CHAPTER II | |
CHAPTER III | |
CHAPTER IV | |
CHAPTER V | |
CHAPTER VI | |
CHAPTER VII | |
CHAPTER VIII | |
CHAPTER IX | |
CHAPTER X | |
CHAPTER XI | |
CHAPTER XII | |
CHAPTER XIII | |
CHAPTER XIV | |
CHAPTER XV | |
CHAPTER XVI | |
CHAPTER XVII | |
CHAPTER XVIII | |
CHAPTER XIX | |
CHAPTER XX | |
CHAPTER XXI | |
CHAPTER XXII | |
CHAPTER XXIII | |
CHAPTER XXIV | |
CHAPTER XXV | |
CHAPTER XXVI | |
BOOK SEVEN: 1810 - 11 | |
CHAPTER I | |
CHAPTER II | |
CHAPTER III | |
CHAPTER IV | |
CHAPTER V | |
CHAPTER VI | |
CHAPTER VII | |
CHAPTER VIII | |
CHAPTER IX | |
CHAPTER X | |
CHAPTER XI | |
CHAPTER XII | |
CHAPTER XIII | |
BOOK EIGHT: 1811 - 12 | |
CHAPTER I | |
CHAPTER II | |
CHAPTER III | |
CHAPTER IV | |
CHAPTER V | |
CHAPTER VI | |
CHAPTER VII | |
CHAPTER VIII | |
CHAPTER IX | |
CHAPTER X | |
CHAPTER XI | |
CHAPTER XII | |
CHAPTER XIII | |
CHAPTER XIV | |
CHAPTER XV | |
CHAPTER XVI | |
CHAPTER XVII | |
CHAPTER XVIII | |
CHAPTER XIX | |
CHAPTER XX | |
CHAPTER XXI | |
CHAPTER XXII | |
BOOK NINE: 1812 | |
CHAPTER I | |
CHAPTER II | |
CHAPTER III | |
CHAPTER IV | |
CHAPTER V | |
CHAPTER VI | |
CHAPTER VII | |
CHAPTER VIII | |
CHAPTER IX | |
CHAPTER X | |
CHAPTER XI | |
CHAPTER XII | |
CHAPTER XIII | |
CHAPTER XIV | |
CHAPTER XV | |
CHAPTER XVI | |
CHAPTER XVII | |
CHAPTER XVIII | |
CHAPTER XIX | |
CHAPTER XX | |
CHAPTER XXI | |
CHAPTER XXII | |
CHAPTER XXIII | |
BOOK TEN: 1812 | |
CHAPTER I | |
CHAPTER II | |
CHAPTER III | |
CHAPTER IV | |
CHAPTER V | |
CHAPTER VI | |
CHAPTER VII | |
CHAPTER VIII | |
CHAPTER IX | |
CHAPTER X | |
CHAPTER XI | |
CHAPTER XII | |
CHAPTER XIII | |
CHAPTER XIV | |
CHAPTER XV | |
CHAPTER XVI | |
CHAPTER XVII | |
CHAPTER XVIII | |
CHAPTER XIX | |
CHAPTER XX | |
CHAPTER XXI | |
CHAPTER XXII | |
CHAPTER XXIII | |
CHAPTER XXIV | |
CHAPTER XXV | |
CHAPTER XXVI | |
CHAPTER XXVII | |
CHAPTER XXVIII | |
CHAPTER XXIX | |
CHAPTER XXX | |
CHAPTER XXXI | |
CHAPTER XXXII | |
CHAPTER XXXIII | |
CHAPTER XXXIV | |
CHAPTER XXXV | |
CHAPTER XXXVI | |
CHAPTER XXXVII | |
CHAPTER XXXVIII | |
CHAPTER XXXIX | |
BOOK ELEVEN: 1812 | |
CHAPTER I | |
CHAPTER II | |
CHAPTER III | |
CHAPTER IV | |
CHAPTER V | |
CHAPTER VI | |
CHAPTER VII | |
CHAPTER VIII | |
CHAPTER IX | |
CHAPTER X | |
CHAPTER XI | |
CHAPTER XII | |
CHAPTER XIII | |
CHAPTER XIV | |
CHAPTER XV | |
CHAPTER XVI | |
CHAPTER XVII | |
CHAPTER XVIII | |
CHAPTER XIX | |
CHAPTER XX | |
CHAPTER XXI | |
CHAPTER XXII | |
CHAPTER XXIII | |
CHAPTER XXIV | |
CHAPTER XXV | |
CHAPTER XXVI | |
CHAPTER XXVII | |
CHAPTER XXVIII | |
CHAPTER XXIX | |
CHAPTER XXX | |
CHAPTER XXXI | |
CHAPTER XXXII | |
CHAPTER XXXIII | |
CHAPTER XXXIV | |
BOOK TWELVE: 1812 | |
CHAPTER I | |
CHAPTER II | |
CHAPTER III | |
CHAPTER IV | |
CHAPTER V | |
CHAPTER VI | |
CHAPTER VII | |
CHAPTER VIII | |
CHAPTER IX | |
CHAPTER X | |
CHAPTER XI | |
CHAPTER XII | |
CHAPTER XIII | |
CHAPTER XIV | |
CHAPTER XV | |
CHAPTER XVI | |
BOOK THIRTEEN: 1812 | |
CHAPTER I | |
CHAPTER II | |
CHAPTER III | |
CHAPTER IV | |
CHAPTER V | |
CHAPTER VI | |
CHAPTER VII | |
CHAPTER VIII | |
CHAPTER IX | |
CHAPTER X | |
CHAPTER XI | |
CHAPTER XII | |
CHAPTER XIII | |
CHAPTER XIV | |
CHAPTER XV | |
CHAPTER XVI | |
CHAPTER XVII | |
CHAPTER XVIII | |
CHAPTER XIX | |
BOOK FOURTEEN: 1812 | |
CHAPTER I | |
CHAPTER II | |
CHAPTER III | |
CHAPTER IV | |
CHAPTER V | |
CHAPTER VI | |
CHAPTER VII | |
CHAPTER VIII | |
CHAPTER IX | |
CHAPTER X | |
CHAPTER XI | |
CHAPTER XII | |
CHAPTER XIII | |
CHAPTER XIV | |
CHAPTER XV | |
CHAPTER XVI | |
CHAPTER XVII | |
CHAPTER XVIII | |
CHAPTER XIX | |
BOOK FIFTEEN: 1812 - 13 | |
CHAPTER I | |
CHAPTER II | |
CHAPTER III | |
CHAPTER IV | |
CHAPTER V | |
CHAPTER VI | |
CHAPTER VII | |
CHAPTER VIII | |
CHAPTER IX | |
CHAPTER X | |
CHAPTER XI | |
CHAPTER XII | |
CHAPTER XIII | |
CHAPTER XIV | |
CHAPTER XV | |
CHAPTER XVI | |
CHAPTER XVII | |
CHAPTER XVIII | |
CHAPTER XIX | |
CHAPTER XX | |
FIRST EPILOGUE: 1813 - 20 | |
CHAPTER I | |
CHAPTER II | |
CHAPTER III | |
CHAPTER IV | |
CHAPTER V | |
CHAPTER VI | |
CHAPTER VII | |
CHAPTER VIII | |
CHAPTER IX | |
CHAPTER X | |
CHAPTER XI | |
CHAPTER XII | |
CHAPTER XIII | |
CHAPTER XIV | |
CHAPTER XV | |
CHAPTER XVI | |
SECOND EPILOGUE | |
CHAPTER I | |
CHAPTER II | |
CHAPTER III | |
CHAPTER IV | |
CHAPTER V | |
CHAPTER VI | |
CHAPTER VII | |
CHAPTER VIII | |
CHAPTER IX | |
CHAPTER X | |
CHAPTER XI | |
CHAPTER XII | |
BOOK ONE: 1805 | |
CHAPTER I | |
“Well, Prince, so Genoa and Lucca are now just family estates of the | |
Buonapartes. But I warn you, if you don’t tell me that this means war, | |
if you still try to defend the infamies and horrors perpetrated by that | |
Antichrist—I really believe he is Antichrist—I will have nothing | |
more to do with you and you are no longer my friend, no longer my | |
‘faithful slave,’ as you call yourself! But how do you do? I see I | |
have frightened you—sit down and tell me all the news.” | |
It was in July, 1805, and the speaker was the well-known Anna Pávlovna | |
Schérer, maid of honor and favorite of the Empress Márya Fëdorovna. | |
With these words she greeted Prince Vasíli Kurágin, a man of high | |
rank and importance, who was the first to arrive at her reception. Anna | |
Pávlovna had had a cough for some days. She was, as she said, suffering | |
from la grippe; grippe being then a new word in St. Petersburg, used | |
only by the elite. | |
All her invitations without exception, written in French, and delivered | |
by a scarlet-liveried footman that morning, ran as follows: | |
“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 | |
Schérer.” | |
“Heavens! what a virulent attack!” replied the prince, not in the | |
least disconcerted by this reception. He had just entered, wearing an | |
embroidered court uniform, knee breeches, and shoes, and had stars on | |
his breast and a serene expression on his flat face. He spoke in that | |
refined French in which our grandfathers not only spoke but thought, and | |
with the gentle, patronizing intonation natural to a man of importance | |
who had grown old in society and at court. He went up to Anna Pávlovna, | |
kissed her hand, presenting to her his bald, scented, and shining head, | |
and complacently seated himself on the sofa. | |
“First of all, dear friend, tell me how you are. Set your friend’s | |
mind at rest,” said he without altering his tone, beneath the | |
politeness and affected sympathy of which indifference and even irony | |
could be discerned. | |
“Can one be well while suffering morally? Can one be calm in times | |
like these if one has any feeling?” said Anna Pávlovna. “You are | |
staying the whole evening, I hope?” | |
“And the fete at the English ambassador’s? Today is Wednesday. I | |
must put in an appearance there,” said the prince. “My daughter is | |
coming for me to take me there.” | |
“I thought today’s fete had been canceled. I confess all these | |
festivities and fireworks are becoming wearisome.” | |
“If they had known that you wished it, the entertainment would have | |
been put off,” said the prince, who, like a wound-up clock, by force | |
of habit said things he did not even wish to be believed. | |
“Don’t tease! Well, and what has been decided about Novosíltsev’s | |
dispatch? You know everything.” | |
“What can one say about it?” replied the prince in a cold, listless | |
tone. “What has been decided? They have decided that Buonaparte has | |
burnt his boats, and I believe that we are ready to burn ours.” | |
Prince Vasíli always spoke languidly, like an actor repeating a stale | |
part. Anna Pávlovna Schérer on the contrary, despite her forty years, | |
overflowed with animation and impulsiveness. To be an enthusiast had | |
become her social vocation and, sometimes even when she did not | |
feel like it, she became enthusiastic in order not to disappoint the | |
expectations of those who knew her. The subdued smile which, though it | |
did not suit her faded features, always played round her lips expressed, | |
as in a spoiled child, a continual consciousness of her charming defect, | |
which she neither wished, nor could, nor considered it necessary, to | |
correct. | |
In the midst of a conversation on political matters Anna Pávlovna burst | |
out: | |
“Oh, don’t speak to me of Austria. Perhaps I don’t understand | |
things, but Austria never has wished, and does not wish, for war. She | |
is betraying us! Russia alone must save Europe. Our gracious sovereign | |
recognizes his high vocation and will be true to it. That is the one | |
thing I have faith in! Our good and wonderful sovereign has to perform | |
the noblest role on earth, and he is so virtuous and noble that God will | |
not forsake him. He will fulfill his vocation and crush the hydra of | |
revolution, which has become more terrible than ever in the person of | |
this murderer and villain! We alone must avenge the blood of the just | |
one.... Whom, I ask you, can we rely on?... England with her commercial | |
spirit will not and cannot understand the Emperor Alexander’s | |
loftiness of soul. She has refused to evacuate Malta. She wanted to | |
find, and still seeks, some secret motive in our actions. What answer | |
did Novosíltsev get? None. The English have not understood and cannot | |
understand the self-abnegation of our Emperor who wants nothing for | |
himself, but only desires the good of mankind. And what have they | |
promised? Nothing! And what little they have promised they will not | |
perform! Prussia has always declared that Buonaparte is invincible, and | |
that all Europe is powerless before him.... And I don’t believe a | |
word that Hardenburg says, or Haugwitz either. This famous Prussian | |
neutrality is just a trap. I have faith only in God and the lofty | |
destiny of our adored monarch. He will save Europe!” | |
She suddenly paused, smiling at her own impetuosity. | |
“I think,” said the prince with a smile, “that if you had been | |
sent instead of our dear Wintzingerode you would have captured the King | |
of Prussia’s consent by assault. You are so eloquent. Will you give me | |
a cup of tea?” | |
“In a moment. À propos,” she added, becoming calm again, “I am | |
expecting two very interesting men tonight, le Vicomte de Mortemart, who | |
is connected with the Montmorencys through the Rohans, one of the best | |
French families. He is one of the genuine émigrés, the good ones. And | |
also the Abbé Morio. Do you know that profound thinker? He has been | |
received by the Emperor. Had you heard?” | |
“I shall be delighted to meet them,” said the prince. “But | |
tell me,” he added with studied carelessness as if it had only just | |
occurred to him, though the question he was about to ask was the chief | |
motive of his visit, “is it true that the Dowager Empress wants | |
Baron Funke to be appointed first secretary at Vienna? The baron by all | |
accounts is a poor creature.” | |
Prince Vasíli wished to obtain this post for his son, but others were | |
trying through the Dowager Empress Márya Fëdorovna to secure it for | |
the baron. | |
Anna Pávlovna almost closed her eyes to indicate that neither she nor | |
anyone else had a right to criticize what the Empress desired or was | |
pleased with. | |
“Baron Funke has been recommended to the Dowager Empress by her | |
sister,” was all she said, in a dry and mournful tone. | |
As she named the Empress, Anna Pávlovna’s face suddenly assumed an | |
expression of profound and sincere devotion and respect mingled with | |
sadness, and this occurred every time she mentioned her illustrious | |
patroness. She added that Her Majesty had deigned to show Baron Funke | |
beaucoup d’estime, and again her face clouded over with sadness. | |
The prince was silent and looked indifferent. But, with the womanly and | |
courtierlike quickness and tact habitual to her, Anna Pávlovna | |
wished both to rebuke him (for daring to speak as he had done of a man | |
recommended to the Empress) and at the same time to console him, so she | |
said: | |
“Now about your family. Do you know that since your daughter came | |
out everyone has been enraptured by her? They say she is amazingly | |
beautiful.” | |
The prince bowed to signify his respect and gratitude. | |
“I often think,” she continued after a short pause, drawing nearer | |
to the prince and smiling amiably at him as if to show that political | |
and social topics were ended and the time had come for intimate | |
conversation—“I often think how unfairly sometimes the joys of life | |
are distributed. Why has fate given you two such splendid children? | |
I don’t speak of Anatole, your youngest. I don’t like him,” she | |
added in a tone admitting of no rejoinder and raising her eyebrows. | |
“Two such charming children. And really you appreciate them less than | |
anyone, and so you don’t deserve to have them.” | |
And she smiled her ecstatic smile. | |
“I can’t help it,” said the prince. “Lavater would have said I | |
lack the bump of paternity.” | |
“Don’t joke; I mean to have a serious talk with you. Do you know | |
I am dissatisfied with your younger son? Between ourselves” (and her | |
face assumed its melancholy expression), “he was mentioned at Her | |
Majesty’s and you were pitied....” | |
The prince answered nothing, but she looked at him significantly, | |
awaiting a reply. He frowned. | |
“What would you have me do?” he said at last. “You know I did all | |
a father could for their education, and they have both turned out fools. | |
Hippolyte is at least a quiet fool, but Anatole is an active one. That | |
is the only difference between them.” He said this smiling in a way | |
more natural and animated than usual, so that the wrinkles round | |
his mouth very clearly revealed something unexpectedly coarse and | |
unpleasant. | |
“And why are children born to such men as you? If you were not a | |
father there would be nothing I could reproach you with,” said Anna | |
Pávlovna, looking up pensively. | |
“I am your faithful slave and to you alone I can confess that my | |
children are the bane of my life. It is the cross I have to bear. That | |
is how I explain it to myself. It can’t be helped!” | |
He said no more, but expressed his resignation to cruel fate by a | |
gesture. Anna Pávlovna meditated. | |
“Have you never thought of marrying your prodigal son Anatole?” she | |
asked. “They say old maids have a mania for matchmaking, and though I | |
don’t feel that weakness in myself as yet, I know a little person who | |
is very unhappy with her father. She is a relation of yours, Princess | |
Mary Bolkónskaya.” | |
Prince Vasíli did not reply, though, with the quickness of memory and | |
perception befitting a man of the world, he indicated by a movement of | |
the head that he was considering this information. | |
“Do you know,” he said at last, evidently unable to check the sad | |
current of his thoughts, “that Anatole is costing me forty thousand | |
rubles a year? And,” he went on after a pause, “what will it be in | |
five years, if he goes on like this?” Presently he added: “That’s | |
what we fathers have to put up with.... Is this princess of yours | |
rich?” | |
“Her father is very rich and stingy. He lives in the country. He is | |
the well-known Prince Bolkónski who had to retire from the army under | |
the late Emperor, and was nicknamed ‘the King of Prussia.’ He is | |
very clever but eccentric, and a bore. The poor girl is very unhappy. | |
She has a brother; I think you know him, he married Lise Meinen lately. | |
He is an aide-de-camp of Kutúzov’s and will be here tonight.” | |
“Listen, dear Annette,” said the prince, suddenly taking Anna | |
Pávlovna’s hand and for some reason drawing it downwards. “Arrange | |
that affair for me and I shall always be your most devoted slave-slafe | |
with an f, as a village elder of mine writes in his reports. She is rich | |
and of good family and that’s all I want.” | |
And with the familiarity and easy grace peculiar to him, he raised the | |
maid of honor’s hand to his lips, kissed it, and swung it to and fro | |
as he lay back in his armchair, looking in another direction. | |
“Attendez,” said Anna Pávlovna, reflecting, “I’ll speak to | |
Lise, young Bolkónski’s wife, this very evening, and perhaps the | |
thing can be arranged. It shall be on your family’s behalf that I’ll | |
start my apprenticeship as old maid.” | |
CHAPTER II | |
Anna Pávlovna’s drawing room was gradually filling. The highest | |
Petersburg society was assembled there: people differing widely in age | |
and character but alike in the social circle to which they belonged. | |
Prince Vasíli’s daughter, the beautiful Hélène, came to take her | |
father to the ambassador’s entertainment; she wore a ball dress and | |
her badge as maid of honor. The youthful little Princess Bolkónskaya, | |
known as la femme la plus séduisante de Pétersbourg, * was also there. | |
She had been married during the previous winter, and being pregnant did | |
not go to any large gatherings, but only to small receptions. Prince | |
Vasíli’s son, Hippolyte, had come with Mortemart, whom he introduced. | |
The Abbé Morio and many others had also come. | |
* The most fascinating woman in Petersburg. | |
To each new arrival Anna Pávlovna said, “You have not yet seen my | |
aunt,” or “You do not know my aunt?” and very gravely conducted | |
him or her to a little old lady, wearing large bows of ribbon in her | |
cap, who had come sailing in from another room as soon as the guests | |
began to arrive; and slowly turning her eyes from the visitor to her | |
aunt, Anna Pávlovna mentioned each one’s name and then left them. | |
Each visitor performed the ceremony of greeting this old aunt whom not | |
one of them knew, not one of them wanted to know, and not one of them | |
cared about; Anna Pávlovna observed these greetings with mournful and | |
solemn interest and silent approval. The aunt spoke to each of them in | |
the same words, about their health and her own, and the health of Her | |
Majesty, “who, thank God, was better today.” And each visitor, | |
though politeness prevented his showing impatience, left the old woman | |
with a sense of relief at having performed a vexatious duty and did not | |
return to her the whole evening. | |
The young Princess Bolkónskaya had brought some work in a | |
gold-embroidered velvet bag. Her pretty little upper lip, on which a | |
delicate dark down was just perceptible, was too short for her teeth, | |
but it lifted all the more sweetly, and was especially charming when she | |
occasionally drew it down to meet the lower lip. As is always the case | |
with a thoroughly attractive woman, her defect—the shortness of her | |
upper lip and her half-open mouth—seemed to be her own special and | |
peculiar form of beauty. Everyone brightened at the sight of this pretty | |
young woman, so soon to become a mother, so full of life and health, and | |
carrying her burden so lightly. Old men and dull dispirited young ones | |
who looked at her, after being in her company and talking to her a | |
little while, felt as if they too were becoming, like her, full of life | |
and health. All who talked to her, and at each word saw her bright smile | |
and the constant gleam of her white teeth, thought that they were in a | |
specially amiable mood that day. | |
The little princess went round the table with quick, short, swaying | |
steps, her workbag on her arm, and gaily spreading out her dress sat | |
down on a sofa near the silver samovar, as if all she was doing was a | |
pleasure to herself and to all around her. “I have brought my work,” | |
said she in French, displaying her bag and addressing all present. | |
“Mind, Annette, I hope you have not played a wicked trick on me,” | |
she added, turning to her hostess. “You wrote that it was to be quite | |
a small reception, and just see how badly I am dressed.” And she | |
spread out her arms to show her short-waisted, lace-trimmed, dainty gray | |
dress, girdled with a broad ribbon just below the breast. | |
“Soyez tranquille, Lise, you will always be prettier than anyone | |
else,” replied Anna Pávlovna. | |
“You know,” said the princess in the same tone of voice and still in | |
French, turning to a general, “my husband is deserting me? He is going | |
to get himself killed. Tell me what this wretched war is for?” she | |
added, addressing Prince Vasíli, and without waiting for an answer she | |
turned to speak to his daughter, the beautiful Hélène. | |
“What a delightful woman this little princess is!” said Prince | |
Vasíli to Anna Pávlovna. | |
One of the next arrivals was a stout, heavily built young man with | |
close-cropped hair, spectacles, the light-colored breeches fashionable | |
at that time, a very high ruffle, and a brown dress coat. This stout | |
young man was an illegitimate son of Count Bezúkhov, a well-known | |
grandee of Catherine’s time who now lay dying in Moscow. The young man | |
had not yet entered either the military or civil service, as he had only | |
just returned from abroad where he had been educated, and this was his | |
first appearance in society. Anna Pávlovna greeted him with the nod she | |
accorded to the lowest hierarchy in her drawing room. But in spite of | |
this lowest-grade greeting, a look of anxiety and fear, as at the sight | |
of something too large and unsuited to the place, came over her face | |
when she saw Pierre enter. Though he was certainly rather bigger than | |
the other men in the room, her anxiety could only have reference to | |
the clever though shy, but observant and natural, expression which | |
distinguished him from everyone else in that drawing room. | |
“It is very good of you, Monsieur Pierre, to come and visit a poor | |
invalid,” said Anna Pávlovna, exchanging an alarmed glance with her | |
aunt as she conducted him to her. | |
Pierre murmured something unintelligible, and continued to look round as | |
if in search of something. On his way to the aunt he bowed to the little | |
princess with a pleased smile, as to an intimate acquaintance. | |
Anna Pávlovna’s alarm was justified, for Pierre turned away from the | |
aunt without waiting to hear her speech about Her Majesty’s health. | |
Anna Pávlovna in dismay detained him with the words: “Do you know the | |
Abbé Morio? He is a most interesting man.” | |
“Yes, I have heard of his scheme for perpetual peace, and it is very | |
interesting but hardly feasible.” | |
“You think so?” rejoined Anna Pávlovna in order to say something | |
and get away to attend to her duties as hostess. But Pierre now | |
committed a reverse act of impoliteness. First he had left a lady before | |
she had finished speaking to him, and now he continued to speak to | |
another who wished to get away. With his head bent, and his big feet | |
spread apart, he began explaining his reasons for thinking the abbé’s | |
plan chimerical. | |
“We will talk of it later,” said Anna Pávlovna with a smile. | |
And having got rid of this young man who did not know how to behave, she | |
resumed her duties as hostess and continued to listen and watch, ready | |
to help at any point where the conversation might happen to flag. As | |
the foreman of a spinning mill, when he has set the hands to work, goes | |
round and notices here a spindle that has stopped or there one that | |
creaks or makes more noise than it should, and hastens to check the | |
machine or set it in proper motion, so Anna Pávlovna moved about her | |
drawing room, approaching now a silent, now a too-noisy group, and by a | |
word or slight rearrangement kept the conversational machine in steady, | |
proper, and regular motion. But amid these cares her anxiety about | |
Pierre was evident. She kept an anxious watch on him when he approached | |
the group round Mortemart to listen to what was being said there, and | |
again when he passed to another group whose center was the abbé. | |
Pierre had been educated abroad, and this reception at Anna | |
Pávlovna’s was the first he had attended in Russia. He knew that all | |
the intellectual lights of Petersburg were gathered there and, like a | |
child in a toyshop, did not know which way to look, afraid of missing | |
any clever conversation that was to be heard. Seeing the self-confident | |
and refined expression on the faces of those present he was always | |
expecting to hear something very profound. At last he came up to Morio. | |
Here the conversation seemed interesting and he stood waiting for an | |
opportunity to express his own views, as young people are fond of doing. | |
CHAPTER III | |
Anna Pávlovna’s reception was in full swing. The spindles hummed | |
steadily and ceaselessly on all sides. With the exception of the aunt, | |
beside whom sat only one elderly lady, who with her thin careworn face | |
was rather out of place in this brilliant society, the whole company had | |
settled into three groups. One, chiefly masculine, had formed round | |
the abbé. Another, of young people, was grouped round the beautiful | |
Princess Hélène, Prince Vasíli’s daughter, and the little Princess | |
Bolkónskaya, very pretty and rosy, though rather too plump for her age. | |
The third group was gathered round Mortemart and Anna Pávlovna. | |
The vicomte was a nice-looking young man with soft features and polished | |
manners, who evidently considered himself a celebrity but out of | |
politeness modestly placed himself at the disposal of the circle in | |
which he found himself. Anna Pávlovna was obviously serving him up as | |
a treat to her guests. As a clever maître d’hôtel serves up as a | |
specially choice delicacy a piece of meat that no one who had seen it in | |
the kitchen would have cared to eat, so Anna Pávlovna served up to | |
her guests, first the vicomte and then the abbé, as peculiarly choice | |
morsels. The group about Mortemart immediately began discussing the | |
murder of the Duc d’Enghien. The vicomte said that the Duc d’Enghien | |
had perished by his own magnanimity, and that there were particular | |
reasons for Buonaparte’s hatred of him. | |
“Ah, yes! Do tell us all about it, Vicomte,” said Anna Pávlovna, | |
with a pleasant feeling that there was something à la Louis XV in the | |
sound of that sentence: “Contez nous çela, Vicomte.” | |
The vicomte bowed and smiled courteously in token of his willingness to | |
comply. Anna Pávlovna arranged a group round him, inviting everyone to | |
listen to his tale. | |
“The vicomte knew the duc personally,” whispered Anna Pávlovna to | |
one of the guests. “The vicomte is a wonderful raconteur,” said she | |
to another. “How evidently he belongs to the best society,” said she | |
to a third; and the vicomte was served up to the company in the choicest | |
and most advantageous style, like a well-garnished joint of roast beef | |
on a hot dish. | |
The vicomte wished to begin his story and gave a subtle smile. | |
“Come over here, Hélène, dear,” said Anna Pávlovna to the | |
beautiful young princess who was sitting some way off, the center of | |
another group. | |
The princess smiled. She rose with the same unchanging smile with which | |
she had first entered the room—the smile of a perfectly beautiful | |
woman. With a slight rustle of her white dress trimmed with moss | |
and ivy, with a gleam of white shoulders, glossy hair, and sparkling | |
diamonds, she passed between the men who made way for her, not looking | |
at any of them but smiling on all, as if graciously allowing each the | |
privilege of admiring her beautiful figure and shapely shoulders, | |
back, and bosom—which in the fashion of those days were very much | |
exposed—and she seemed to bring the glamour of a ballroom with her as | |
she moved toward Anna Pávlovna. Hélène was so lovely that not only | |
did she not show any trace of coquetry, but on the contrary she even | |
appeared shy of her unquestionable and all too victorious beauty. She | |
seemed to wish, but to be unable, to diminish its effect. | |
“How lovely!” said everyone who saw her; and the vicomte lifted his | |
shoulders and dropped his eyes as if startled by something extraordinary | |
when she took her seat opposite and beamed upon him also with her | |
unchanging smile. | |
“Madame, I doubt my ability before such an audience,” said he, | |
smilingly inclining his head. | |
The princess rested her bare round arm on a little table and considered | |
a reply unnecessary. She smilingly waited. All the time the story was | |
being told she sat upright, glancing now at her beautiful round arm, | |
altered in shape by its pressure on the table, now at her still more | |
beautiful bosom, on which she readjusted a diamond necklace. From time | |
to time she smoothed the folds of her dress, and whenever the story | |
produced an effect she glanced at Anna Pávlovna, at once adopted just | |
the expression she saw on the maid of honor’s face, and again relapsed | |
into her radiant smile. | |
The little princess had also left the tea table and followed Hélène. | |
“Wait a moment, I’ll get my work.... Now then, what are you | |
thinking of?” she went on, turning to Prince Hippolyte. “Fetch me my | |
workbag.” | |
There was a general movement as the princess, smiling and talking | |
merrily to everyone at once, sat down and gaily arranged herself in her | |
seat. | |
“Now I am all right,” she said, and asking the vicomte to begin, she | |
took up her work. | |
Prince Hippolyte, having brought the workbag, joined the circle and | |
moving a chair close to hers seated himself beside her. | |
Le charmant Hippolyte was surprising by his extraordinary resemblance | |
to his beautiful sister, but yet more by the fact that in spite of | |
this resemblance he was exceedingly ugly. His features were like his | |
sister’s, but while in her case everything was lit up by a joyous, | |
self-satisfied, youthful, and constant smile of animation, and by the | |
wonderful classic beauty of her figure, his face on the contrary | |
was dulled by imbecility and a constant expression of sullen | |
self-confidence, while his body was thin and weak. His eyes, nose, and | |
mouth all seemed puckered into a vacant, wearied grimace, and his arms | |
and legs always fell into unnatural positions. | |
“It’s not going to be a ghost story?” said he, sitting down beside | |
the princess and hastily adjusting his lorgnette, as if without this | |
instrument he could not begin to speak. | |
“Why no, my dear fellow,” said the astonished narrator, shrugging | |
his shoulders. | |
“Because I hate ghost stories,” said Prince Hippolyte in a tone | |
which showed that he only understood the meaning of his words after he | |
had uttered them. | |
He spoke with such self-confidence that his hearers could not be sure | |
whether what he said was very witty or very stupid. He was dressed in | |
a dark-green dress coat, knee breeches of the color of cuisse de nymphe | |
effrayée, as he called it, shoes, and silk stockings. | |
The vicomte told his tale very neatly. It was an anecdote, then current, | |
to the effect that the Duc d’Enghien had gone secretly to Paris to | |
visit Mademoiselle George; that at her house he came upon Bonaparte, | |
who also enjoyed the famous actress’ favors, and that in his presence | |
Napoleon happened to fall into one of the fainting fits to which he was | |
subject, and was thus at the duc’s mercy. The latter spared him, and | |
this magnanimity Bonaparte subsequently repaid by death. | |
The story was very pretty and interesting, especially at the point | |
where the rivals suddenly recognized one another; and the ladies looked | |
agitated. | |
“Charming!” said Anna Pávlovna with an inquiring glance at the | |
little princess. | |
“Charming!” whispered the little princess, sticking the needle into | |
her work as if to testify that the interest and fascination of the story | |
prevented her from going on with it. | |
The vicomte appreciated this silent praise and smiling gratefully | |
prepared to continue, but just then Anna Pávlovna, who had kept a | |
watchful eye on the young man who so alarmed her, noticed that he was | |
talking too loudly and vehemently with the abbé, so she hurried to the | |
rescue. Pierre had managed to start a conversation with the abbé about | |
the balance of power, and the latter, evidently interested by the young | |
man’s simple-minded eagerness, was explaining his pet theory. Both | |
were talking and listening too eagerly and too naturally, which was why | |
Anna Pávlovna disapproved. | |
“The means are ... the balance of power in Europe and the rights of | |
the people,” the abbé was saying. “It is only necessary for one | |
powerful nation like Russia—barbaric as she is said to be—to place | |
herself disinterestedly at the head of an alliance having for its object | |
the maintenance of the balance of power of Europe, and it would save the | |
world!” | |
“But how are you to get that balance?” Pierre was beginning. | |
At that moment Anna Pávlovna came up and, looking severely at Pierre, | |
asked the Italian how he stood Russian climate. The Italian’s | |
face instantly changed and assumed an offensively affected, sugary | |
expression, evidently habitual to him when conversing with women. | |
“I am so enchanted by the brilliancy of the wit and culture of the | |
society, more especially of the feminine society, in which I have had | |
the honor of being received, that I have not yet had time to think of | |
the climate,” said he. | |
Not letting the abbé and Pierre escape, Anna Pávlovna, the more | |
conveniently to keep them under observation, brought them into the | |
larger circle. | |
CHAPTER IV | |
Just then another visitor entered the drawing room: Prince Andrew | |
Bolkónski, the little princess’ husband. He was a very handsome young | |
man, of medium height, with firm, clearcut features. Everything about | |
him, from his weary, bored expression to his quiet, measured step, | |
offered a most striking contrast to his quiet, little wife. It was | |
evident that he not only knew everyone in the drawing room, but had | |
found them to be so tiresome that it wearied him to look at or listen to | |
them. And among all these faces that he found so tedious, none seemed | |
to bore him so much as that of his pretty wife. He turned away from | |
her with a grimace that distorted his handsome face, kissed Anna | |
Pávlovna’s hand, and screwing up his eyes scanned the whole company. | |
“You are off to the war, Prince?” said Anna Pávlovna. | |
“General Kutúzov,” said Bolkónski, speaking French and stressing | |
the last syllable of the general’s name like a Frenchman, “has been | |
pleased to take me as an aide-de-camp....” | |
“And Lise, your wife?” | |
“She will go to the country.” | |
“Are you not ashamed to deprive us of your charming wife?” | |
“André,” said his wife, addressing her husband in the same | |
coquettish manner in which she spoke to other men, “the vicomte has | |
been telling us such a tale about Mademoiselle George and Buonaparte!” | |
Prince Andrew screwed up his eyes and turned away. Pierre, who from | |
the moment Prince Andrew entered the room had watched him with glad, | |
affectionate eyes, now came up and took his arm. Before he looked round | |
Prince Andrew frowned again, expressing his annoyance with whoever was | |
touching his arm, but when he saw Pierre’s beaming face he gave him an | |
unexpectedly kind and pleasant smile. | |
“There now!... So you, too, are in the great world?” said he to | |
Pierre. | |
“I knew you would be here,” replied Pierre. “I will come to supper | |
with you. May I?” he added in a low voice so as not to disturb the | |
vicomte who was continuing his story. | |
“No, impossible!” said Prince Andrew, laughing and pressing | |
Pierre’s hand to show that there was no need to ask the question. He | |
wished to say something more, but at that moment Prince Vasíli and his | |
daughter got up to go and the two young men rose to let them pass. | |
“You must excuse me, dear Vicomte,” said Prince Vasíli to the | |
Frenchman, holding him down by the sleeve in a friendly way to prevent | |
his rising. “This unfortunate fete at the ambassador’s deprives me | |
of a pleasure, and obliges me to interrupt you. I am very sorry to leave | |
your enchanting party,” said he, turning to Anna Pávlovna. | |
His daughter, Princess Hélène, passed between the chairs, lightly | |
holding up the folds of her dress, and the smile shone still more | |
radiantly on her beautiful face. Pierre gazed at her with rapturous, | |
almost frightened, eyes as she passed him. | |
“Very lovely,” said Prince Andrew. | |
“Very,” said Pierre. | |
In passing Prince Vasíli seized Pierre’s hand and said to Anna | |
Pávlovna: “Educate this bear for me! He has been staying with me | |
a whole month and this is the first time I have seen him in society. | |
Nothing is so necessary for a young man as the society of clever | |
women.” | |
Anna Pávlovna smiled and promised to take Pierre in hand. She knew his | |
father to be a connection of Prince Vasíli’s. The elderly lady who | |
had been sitting with the old aunt rose hurriedly and overtook Prince | |
Vasíli in the anteroom. All the affectation of interest she had assumed | |
had left her kindly and tear-worn face and it now expressed only anxiety | |
and fear. | |
“How about my son Borís, Prince?” said she, hurrying after him into | |
the anteroom. “I can’t remain any longer in Petersburg. Tell me what | |
news I may take back to my poor boy.” | |
Although Prince Vasíli listened reluctantly and not very politely | |
to the elderly lady, even betraying some impatience, she gave him an | |
ingratiating and appealing smile, and took his hand that he might not go | |
away. | |
“What would it cost you to say a word to the Emperor, and then he | |
would be transferred to the Guards at once?” said she. | |
“Believe me, Princess, I am ready to do all I can,” answered Prince | |
Vasíli, “but it is difficult for me to ask the Emperor. I should | |
advise you to appeal to Rumyántsev through Prince Golítsyn. That would | |
be the best way.” | |
The elderly lady was a Princess Drubetskáya, belonging to one of the | |
best families in Russia, but she was poor, and having long been out of | |
society had lost her former influential connections. She had now come to | |
Petersburg to procure an appointment in the Guards for her only son. | |
It was, in fact, solely to meet Prince Vasíli that she had obtained an | |
invitation to Anna Pávlovna’s reception and had sat listening to | |
the vicomte’s story. Prince Vasíli’s words frightened her, an | |
embittered look clouded her once handsome face, but only for a moment; | |
then she smiled again and clutched Prince Vasíli’s arm more tightly. | |
“Listen to me, Prince,” said she. “I have never yet asked you | |
for anything and I never will again, nor have I ever reminded you of my | |
father’s friendship for you; but now I entreat you for God’s sake to | |
do this for my son—and I shall always regard you as a benefactor,” | |
she added hurriedly. “No, don’t be angry, but promise! I have asked | |
Golítsyn and he has refused. Be the kindhearted man you always were,” | |
she said, trying to smile though tears were in her eyes. | |
“Papa, we shall be late,” said Princess Hélène, turning her | |
beautiful head and looking over her classically molded shoulder as she | |
stood waiting by the door. | |
Influence in society, however, is a capital which has to be economized | |
if it is to last. Prince Vasíli knew this, and having once realized | |
that if he asked on behalf of all who begged of him, he would soon be | |
unable to ask for himself, he became chary of using his influence. But | |
in Princess Drubetskáya’s case he felt, after her second appeal, | |
something like qualms of conscience. She had reminded him of what was | |
quite true; he had been indebted to her father for the first steps in | |
his career. Moreover, he could see by her manners that she was one of | |
those women—mostly mothers—who, having once made up their minds, | |
will not rest until they have gained their end, and are prepared if | |
necessary to go on insisting day after day and hour after hour, and even | |
to make scenes. This last consideration moved him. | |
“My dear Anna Mikháylovna,” said he with his usual familiarity and | |
weariness of tone, “it is almost impossible for me to do what you | |
ask; but to prove my devotion to you and how I respect your father’s | |
memory, I will do the impossible—your son shall be transferred to the | |
Guards. Here is my hand on it. Are you satisfied?” | |
“My dear benefactor! This is what I expected from you—I knew your | |
kindness!” He turned to go. | |
“Wait—just a word! When he has been transferred to the Guards...” | |
she faltered. “You are on good terms with Michael Ilariónovich | |
Kutúzov ... recommend Borís to him as adjutant! Then I shall be at | |
rest, and then...” | |
Prince Vasíli smiled. | |
“No, I won’t promise that. You don’t know how Kutúzov is pestered | |
since his appointment as Commander in Chief. He told me himself that | |
all the Moscow ladies have conspired to give him all their sons as | |
adjutants.” | |
“No, but do promise! I won’t let you go! My dear benefactor...” | |
“Papa,” said his beautiful daughter in the same tone as before, | |
“we shall be late.” | |
“Well, au revoir! Good-by! You hear her?” | |
“Then tomorrow you will speak to the Emperor?” | |
“Certainly; but about Kutúzov, I don’t promise.” | |
“Do promise, do promise, Vasíli!” cried Anna Mikháylovna as he | |
went, with the smile of a coquettish girl, which at one time probably | |
came naturally to her, but was now very ill-suited to her careworn face. | |
Apparently she had forgotten her age and by force of habit employed | |
all the old feminine arts. But as soon as the prince had gone her face | |
resumed its former cold, artificial expression. She returned to the | |
group where the vicomte was still talking, and again pretended to | |
listen, while waiting till it would be time to leave. Her task was | |
accomplished. | |
CHAPTER V | |
“And what do you think of this latest comedy, the coronation at | |
Milan?” asked Anna Pávlovna, “and of the comedy of the people of | |
Genoa and Lucca laying their petitions before Monsieur Buonaparte, and | |
Monsieur Buonaparte sitting on a throne and granting the petitions of | |
the nations? Adorable! It is enough to make one’s head whirl! It is as | |
if the whole world had gone crazy.” | |
Prince Andrew looked Anna Pávlovna straight in the face with a | |
sarcastic smile. | |
“‘Dieu me la donne, gare à qui la touche!’’ * They say he was | |
very fine when he said that,” he remarked, repeating the words in | |
Italian: “‘Dio mi l’ha dato. Guai a chi la tocchi!’’ | |
* God has given it to me, let him who touches it beware! | |
“I hope this will prove the last drop that will make the glass run | |
over,” Anna Pávlovna continued. “The sovereigns will not be able to | |
endure this man who is a menace to everything.” | |
“The sovereigns? I do not speak of Russia,” said the vicomte, polite | |
but hopeless: “The sovereigns, madame... What have they done for Louis | |
XVII, for the Queen, or for Madame Elizabeth? Nothing!” and he became | |
more animated. “And believe me, they are reaping the reward of their | |
betrayal of the Bourbon cause. The sovereigns! Why, they are sending | |
ambassadors to compliment the usurper.” | |
And sighing disdainfully, he again changed his position. | |
Prince Hippolyte, who had been gazing at the vicomte for some time | |
through his lorgnette, suddenly turned completely round toward the | |
little princess, and having asked for a needle began tracing the Condé | |
coat of arms on the table. He explained this to her with as much gravity | |
as if she had asked him to do it. | |
“Bâton de gueules, engrêlé de gueules d’azur—maison Condé,” | |
said he. | |
The princess listened, smiling. | |
“If Buonaparte remains on the throne of France a year longer,” the | |
vicomte continued, with the air of a man who, in a matter with which | |
he is better acquainted than anyone else, does not listen to others but | |
follows the current of his own thoughts, “things will have gone too | |
far. By intrigues, violence, exile, and executions, French society—I | |
mean good French society—will have been forever destroyed, and | |
then....” | |
He shrugged his shoulders and spread out his hands. Pierre wished to | |
make a remark, for the conversation interested him, but Anna Pávlovna, | |
who had him under observation, interrupted: | |
“The Emperor Alexander,” said she, with the melancholy which | |
always accompanied any reference of hers to the Imperial family, “has | |
declared that he will leave it to the French people themselves to choose | |
their own form of government; and I believe that once free from the | |
usurper, the whole nation will certainly throw itself into the arms | |
of its rightful king,” she concluded, trying to be amiable to the | |
royalist emigrant. | |
“That is doubtful,” said Prince Andrew. “Monsieur le Vicomte quite | |
rightly supposes that matters have already gone too far. I think it will | |
be difficult to return to the old regime.” | |
“From what I have heard,” said Pierre, blushing and breaking into | |
the conversation, “almost all the aristocracy has already gone over to | |
Bonaparte’s side.” | |
“It is the Buonapartists who say that,” replied the vicomte without | |
looking at Pierre. “At the present time it is difficult to know the | |
real state of French public opinion.” | |
“Bonaparte has said so,” remarked Prince Andrew with a sarcastic | |
smile. | |
It was evident that he did not like the vicomte and was aiming his | |
remarks at him, though without looking at him. | |
“‘I showed them the path to glory, but they did not follow | |
it,’” Prince Andrew continued after a short silence, again quoting | |
Napoleon’s words. “‘I opened my antechambers and they crowded | |
in.’ I do not know how far he was justified in saying so.” | |
“Not in the least,” replied the vicomte. “After the murder of the | |
duc even the most partial ceased to regard him as a hero. If to some | |
people,” he went on, turning to Anna Pávlovna, “he ever was a hero, | |
after the murder of the duc there was one martyr more in heaven and one | |
hero less on earth.” | |
Before Anna Pávlovna and the others had time to smile their | |
appreciation of the vicomte’s epigram, Pierre again broke into the | |
conversation, and though Anna Pávlovna felt sure he would say something | |
inappropriate, she was unable to stop him. | |
“The execution of the Duc d’Enghien,” declared Monsieur Pierre, | |
“was a political necessity, and it seems to me that Napoleon | |
showed greatness of soul by not fearing to take on himself the whole | |
responsibility of that deed.” | |
“Dieu! Mon Dieu!” muttered Anna Pávlovna in a terrified whisper. | |
“What, Monsieur Pierre... Do you consider that assassination shows | |
greatness of soul?” said the little princess, smiling and drawing her | |
work nearer to her. | |
“Oh! Oh!” exclaimed several voices. | |
“Capital!” said Prince Hippolyte in English, and began slapping his | |
knee with the palm of his hand. | |
The vicomte merely shrugged his shoulders. Pierre looked solemnly at his | |
audience over his spectacles and continued. | |
“I say so,” he continued desperately, “because the Bourbons fled | |
from the Revolution leaving the people to anarchy, and Napoleon alone | |
understood the Revolution and quelled it, and so for the general good, | |
he could not stop short for the sake of one man’s life.” | |
“Won’t you come over to the other table?” suggested Anna | |
Pávlovna. | |
But Pierre continued his speech without heeding her. | |
“No,” cried he, becoming more and more eager, “Napoleon is great | |
because he rose superior to the Revolution, suppressed its abuses, | |
preserved all that was good in it—equality of citizenship and freedom | |
of speech and of the press—and only for that reason did he obtain | |
power.” | |
“Yes, if having obtained power, without availing himself of it to | |
commit murder he had restored it to the rightful king, I should have | |
called him a great man,” remarked the vicomte. | |
“He could not do that. The people only gave him power that he might | |
rid them of the Bourbons and because they saw that he was a great | |
man. The Revolution was a grand thing!” continued Monsieur Pierre, | |
betraying by this desperate and provocative proposition his extreme | |
youth and his wish to express all that was in his mind. | |
“What? Revolution and regicide a grand thing?... Well, after that... | |
But won’t you come to this other table?” repeated Anna Pávlovna. | |
“Rousseau’s Contrat Social,” said the vicomte with a tolerant | |
smile. | |
“I am not speaking of regicide, I am speaking about ideas.” | |
“Yes: ideas of robbery, murder, and regicide,” again interjected an | |
ironical voice. | |
“Those were extremes, no doubt, but they are not what is most | |
important. What is important are the rights of man, emancipation from | |
prejudices, and equality of citizenship, and all these ideas Napoleon | |
has retained in full force.” | |
“Liberty and equality,” said the vicomte contemptuously, as if at | |
last deciding seriously to prove to this youth how foolish his words | |
were, “high-sounding words which have long been discredited. Who does | |
not love liberty and equality? Even our Saviour preached liberty and | |
equality. Have people since the Revolution become happier? On the | |
contrary. We wanted liberty, but Buonaparte has destroyed it.” | |
Prince Andrew kept looking with an amused smile from Pierre to the | |
vicomte and from the vicomte to their hostess. In the first moment of | |
Pierre’s outburst Anna Pávlovna, despite her social experience, was | |
horror-struck. But when she saw that Pierre’s sacrilegious words | |
had not exasperated the vicomte, and had convinced herself that it was | |
impossible to stop him, she rallied her forces and joined the vicomte in | |
a vigorous attack on the orator. | |
“But, my dear Monsieur Pierre,” said she, “how do you explain the | |
fact of a great man executing a duc—or even an ordinary man who—is | |
innocent and untried?” | |
“I should like,” said the vicomte, “to ask how monsieur explains | |
the 18th Brumaire; was not that an imposture? It was a swindle, and not | |
at all like the conduct of a great man!” | |
“And the prisoners he killed in Africa? That was horrible!” said the | |
little princess, shrugging her shoulders. | |
“He’s a low fellow, say what you will,” remarked Prince Hippolyte. | |
Pierre, not knowing whom to answer, looked at them all and smiled. His | |
smile was unlike the half-smile of other people. When he smiled, | |
his grave, even rather gloomy, look was instantaneously replaced by | |
another—a childlike, kindly, even rather silly look, which seemed to | |
ask forgiveness. | |
The vicomte who was meeting him for the first time saw clearly that | |
this young Jacobin was not so terrible as his words suggested. All were | |
silent. | |
“How do you expect him to answer you all at once?” said Prince | |
Andrew. “Besides, in the actions of a statesman one has to distinguish | |
between his acts as a private person, as a general, and as an emperor. | |
So it seems to me.” | |
“Yes, yes, of course!” Pierre chimed in, pleased at the arrival of | |
this reinforcement. | |
“One must admit,” continued Prince Andrew, “that Napoleon as a man | |
was great on the bridge of Arcola, and in the hospital at Jaffa where he | |
gave his hand to the plague-stricken; but ... but there are other acts | |
which it is difficult to justify.” | |
Prince Andrew, who had evidently wished to tone down the awkwardness of | |
Pierre’s remarks, rose and made a sign to his wife that it was time to | |
go. | |
Suddenly Prince Hippolyte started up making signs to everyone to attend, | |
and asking them all to be seated began: | |
“I was told a charming Moscow story today and must treat you to it. | |
Excuse me, Vicomte—I must tell it in Russian or the point will be | |
lost....” And Prince Hippolyte began to tell his story in such Russian | |
as a Frenchman would speak after spending about a year in Russia. | |
Everyone waited, so emphatically and eagerly did he demand their | |
attention to his story. | |
“There is in Moscow a lady, une dame, and she is very stingy. She must | |
have two footmen behind her carriage, and very big ones. That was her | |
taste. And she had a lady’s maid, also big. She said....” | |
Here Prince Hippolyte paused, evidently collecting his ideas with | |
difficulty. | |
“She said.... Oh yes! She said, ‘Girl,’ to the maid, ‘put on a | |
livery, get up behind the carriage, and come with me while I make some | |
calls.’” | |
Here Prince Hippolyte spluttered and burst out laughing long before his | |
audience, which produced an effect unfavorable to the narrator. Several | |
persons, among them the elderly lady and Anna Pávlovna, did however | |
smile. | |
“She went. Suddenly there was a great wind. The girl lost her hat and | |
her long hair came down....” Here he could contain himself no | |
longer and went on, between gasps of laughter: “And the whole world | |
knew....” | |
And so the anecdote ended. Though it was unintelligible why he had told | |
it, or why it had to be told in Russian, still Anna Pávlovna and the | |
others appreciated Prince Hippolyte’s social tact in so agreeably | |
ending Pierre’s unpleasant and unamiable outburst. After the anecdote | |
the conversation broke up into insignificant small talk about the last | |
and next balls, about theatricals, and who would meet whom, and when and | |
where. | |
CHAPTER VI | |
Having thanked Anna Pávlovna for her charming soiree, the guests began | |
to take their leave. | |
Pierre was ungainly. Stout, about the average height, broad, with huge | |
red hands; he did not know, as the saying is, how to enter a drawing | |
room and still less how to leave one; that is, how to say something | |
particularly agreeable before going away. Besides this he was | |
absent-minded. When he rose to go, he took up instead of his own, the | |
general’s three-cornered hat, and held it, pulling at the plume, | |
till the general asked him to restore it. All his absent-mindedness and | |
inability to enter a room and converse in it was, however, redeemed by | |
his kindly, simple, and modest expression. Anna Pávlovna turned toward | |
him and, with a Christian mildness that expressed forgiveness of his | |
indiscretion, nodded and said: “I hope to see you again, but I also | |
hope you will change your opinions, my dear Monsieur Pierre.” | |
When she said this, he did not reply and only bowed, but again everybody | |
saw his smile, which said nothing, unless perhaps, “Opinions are | |
opinions, but you see what a capital, good-natured fellow I am.” And | |
everyone, including Anna Pávlovna, felt this. | |
Prince Andrew had gone out into the hall, and, turning his shoulders | |
to the footman who was helping him on with his cloak, listened | |
indifferently to his wife’s chatter with Prince Hippolyte who had also | |
come into the hall. Prince Hippolyte stood close to the pretty, pregnant | |
princess, and stared fixedly at her through his eyeglass. | |
“Go in, Annette, or you will catch cold,” said the little princess, | |
taking leave of Anna Pávlovna. “It is settled,” she added in a low | |
voice. | |
Anna Pávlovna had already managed to speak to Lise about the match she | |
contemplated between Anatole and the little princess’ sister-in-law. | |
“I rely on you, my dear,” said Anna Pávlovna, also in a low tone. | |
“Write to her and let me know how her father looks at the matter. Au | |
revoir! ”—and she left the hall. | |
Prince Hippolyte approached the little princess and, bending his face | |
close to her, began to whisper something. | |
Two footmen, the princess’ and his own, stood holding a shawl and | |
a cloak, waiting for the conversation to finish. They listened to | |
the French sentences which to them were meaningless, with an air of | |
understanding but not wishing to appear to do so. The princess as usual | |
spoke smilingly and listened with a laugh. | |
“I am very glad I did not go to the ambassador’s,” said Prince | |
Hippolyte “—so dull—. It has been a delightful evening, has it | |
not? Delightful!” | |
“They say the ball will be very good,” replied the princess, drawing | |
up her downy little lip. “All the pretty women in society will be | |
there.” | |
“Not all, for you will not be there; not all,” said Prince Hippolyte | |
smiling joyfully; and snatching the shawl from the footman, whom he | |
even pushed aside, he began wrapping it round the princess. Either from | |
awkwardness or intentionally (no one could have said which) after the | |
shawl had been adjusted he kept his arm around her for a long time, as | |
though embracing her. | |
Still smiling, she gracefully moved away, turning and glancing at her | |
husband. Prince Andrew’s eyes were closed, so weary and sleepy did he | |
seem. | |
“Are you ready?” he asked his wife, looking past her. | |
Prince Hippolyte hurriedly put on his cloak, which in the latest fashion | |
reached to his very heels, and, stumbling in it, ran out into the porch | |
following the princess, whom a footman was helping into the carriage. | |
“Princesse, au revoir,” cried he, stumbling with his tongue as well | |
as with his feet. | |
The princess, picking up her dress, was taking her seat in the dark | |
carriage, her husband was adjusting his saber; Prince Hippolyte, under | |
pretense of helping, was in everyone’s way. | |
“Allow me, sir,” said Prince Andrew in Russian in a cold, | |
disagreeable tone to Prince Hippolyte who was blocking his path. | |
“I am expecting you, Pierre,” said the same voice, but gently and | |
affectionately. | |
The postilion started, the carriage wheels rattled. Prince Hippolyte | |
laughed spasmodically as he stood in the porch waiting for the vicomte | |
whom he had promised to take home. | |
“Well, mon cher,” said the vicomte, having seated himself beside | |
Hippolyte in the carriage, “your little princess is very nice, very | |
nice indeed, quite French,” and he kissed the tips of his fingers. | |
Hippolyte burst out laughing. | |
“Do you know, you are a terrible chap for all your innocent airs,” | |
continued the vicomte. “I pity the poor husband, that little officer | |
who gives himself the airs of a monarch.” | |
Hippolyte spluttered again, and amid his laughter said, “And you were | |
saying that the Russian ladies are not equal to the French? One has to | |
know how to deal with them.” | |
Pierre reaching the house first went into Prince Andrew’s study like | |
one quite at home, and from habit immediately lay down on the sofa, took | |
from the shelf the first book that came to his hand (it was Caesar’s | |
Commentaries), and resting on his elbow, began reading it in the middle. | |
“What have you done to Mlle Schérer? She will be quite ill now,” | |
said Prince Andrew, as he entered the study, rubbing his small white | |
hands. | |
Pierre turned his whole body, making the sofa creak. He lifted his eager | |
face to Prince Andrew, smiled, and waved his hand. | |
“That abbé is very interesting but he does not see the thing in the | |
right light.... In my opinion perpetual peace is possible but—I do not | |
know how to express it ... not by a balance of political power....” | |
It was evident that Prince Andrew was not interested in such abstract | |
conversation. | |
“One can’t everywhere say all one thinks, mon cher. Well, have | |
you at last decided on anything? Are you going to be a guardsman or a | |
diplomatist?” asked Prince Andrew after a momentary silence. | |
Pierre sat up on the sofa, with his legs tucked under him. | |
“Really, I don’t yet know. I don’t like either the one or the | |
other.” | |
“But you must decide on something! Your father expects it.” | |
Pierre at the age of ten had been sent abroad with an abbé as tutor, | |
and had remained away till he was twenty. When he returned to Moscow | |
his father dismissed the abbé and said to the young man, “Now go | |
to Petersburg, look round, and choose your profession. I will agree to | |
anything. Here is a letter to Prince Vasíli, and here is money. Write | |
to me all about it, and I will help you in everything.” Pierre had | |
already been choosing a career for three months, and had not decided | |
on anything. It was about this choice that Prince Andrew was speaking. | |
Pierre rubbed his forehead. | |
“But he must be a Freemason,” said he, referring to the abbé whom | |
he had met that evening. | |
“That is all nonsense.” Prince Andrew again interrupted him, “let | |
us talk business. Have you been to the Horse Guards?” | |
“No, I have not; but this is what I have been thinking and wanted | |
to tell you. There is a war now against Napoleon. If it were a war for | |
freedom I could understand it and should be the first to enter the army; | |
but to help England and Austria against the greatest man in the world is | |
not right.” | |
Prince Andrew only shrugged his shoulders at Pierre’s childish words. | |
He put on the air of one who finds it impossible to reply to such | |
nonsense, but it would in fact have been difficult to give any other | |
answer than the one Prince Andrew gave to this naïve question. | |
“If no one fought except on his own conviction, there would be no | |
wars,” he said. | |
“And that would be splendid,” said Pierre. | |
Prince Andrew smiled ironically. | |
“Very likely it would be splendid, but it will never come about....” | |
“Well, why are you going to the war?” asked Pierre. | |
“What for? I don’t know. I must. Besides that I am going....” He | |
paused. “I am going because the life I am leading here does not suit | |
me!” | |
CHAPTER VII | |
The rustle of a woman’s dress was heard in the next room. Prince | |
Andrew shook himself as if waking up, and his face assumed the look it | |
had had in Anna Pávlovna’s drawing room. Pierre removed his feet from | |
the sofa. The princess came in. She had changed her gown for a house | |
dress as fresh and elegant as the other. Prince Andrew rose and politely | |
placed a chair for her. | |
“How is it,” she began, as usual in French, settling down briskly | |
and fussily in the easy chair, “how is it Annette never got married? | |
How stupid you men all are not to have married her! Excuse me for saying | |
so, but you have no sense about women. What an argumentative fellow you | |
are, Monsieur Pierre!” | |
“And I am still arguing with your husband. I can’t understand why he | |
wants to go to the war,” replied Pierre, addressing the princess | |
with none of the embarrassment so commonly shown by young men in their | |
intercourse with young women. | |
The princess started. Evidently Pierre’s words touched her to the | |
quick. | |
“Ah, that is just what I tell him!” said she. “I don’t | |
understand it; I don’t in the least understand why men can’t live | |
without wars. How is it that we women don’t want anything of the kind, | |
don’t need it? Now you shall judge between us. I always tell him: Here | |
he is Uncle’s aide-de-camp, a most brilliant position. He is so | |
well known, so much appreciated by everyone. The other day at the | |
Apráksins’ I heard a lady asking, ‘Is that the famous Prince | |
Andrew?’ I did indeed.” She laughed. “He is so well received | |
everywhere. He might easily become aide-de-camp to the Emperor. You know | |
the Emperor spoke to him most graciously. Annette and I were speaking of | |
how to arrange it. What do you think?” | |
Pierre looked at his friend and, noticing that he did not like the | |
conversation, gave no reply. | |
“When are you starting?” he asked. | |
“Oh, don’t speak of his going, don’t! I won’t hear it spoken | |
of,” said the princess in the same petulantly playful tone in which | |
she had spoken to Hippolyte in the drawing room and which was so plainly | |
ill-suited to the family circle of which Pierre was almost a member. | |
“Today when I remembered that all these delightful associations | |
must be broken off ... and then you know, André...” (she looked | |
significantly at her husband) “I’m afraid, I’m afraid!” she | |
whispered, and a shudder ran down her back. | |
Her husband looked at her as if surprised to notice that someone besides | |
Pierre and himself was in the room, and addressed her in a tone of | |
frigid politeness. | |
“What is it you are afraid of, Lise? I don’t understand,” said he. | |
“There, what egotists men all are: all, all egotists! Just for a whim | |
of his own, goodness only knows why, he leaves me and locks me up alone | |
in the country.” | |
“With my father and sister, remember,” said Prince Andrew gently. | |
“Alone all the same, without my friends.... And he expects me not to | |
be afraid.” | |
Her tone was now querulous and her lip drawn up, giving her not a | |
joyful, but an animal, squirrel-like expression. She paused as if she | |
felt it indecorous to speak of her pregnancy before Pierre, though the | |
gist of the matter lay in that. | |
“I still can’t understand what you are afraid of,” said Prince | |
Andrew slowly, not taking his eyes off his wife. | |
The princess blushed, and raised her arms with a gesture of despair. | |
“No, Andrew, I must say you have changed. Oh, how you have....” | |
“Your doctor tells you to go to bed earlier,” said Prince Andrew. | |
“You had better go.” | |
The princess said nothing, but suddenly her short downy lip quivered. | |
Prince Andrew rose, shrugged his shoulders, and walked about the room. | |
Pierre looked over his spectacles with naïve surprise, now at him and | |
now at her, moved as if about to rise too, but changed his mind. | |
“Why should I mind Monsieur Pierre being here?” exclaimed the little | |
princess suddenly, her pretty face all at once distorted by a tearful | |
grimace. “I have long wanted to ask you, Andrew, why you have changed | |
so to me? What have I done to you? You are going to the war and have no | |
pity for me. Why is it?” | |
“Lise!” was all Prince Andrew said. But that one word expressed | |
an entreaty, a threat, and above all conviction that she would herself | |
regret her words. But she went on hurriedly: | |
“You treat me like an invalid or a child. I see it all! Did you behave | |
like that six months ago?” | |
“Lise, I beg you to desist,” said Prince Andrew still more | |
emphatically. | |
Pierre, who had been growing more and more agitated as he listened to | |
all this, rose and approached the princess. He seemed unable to bear the | |
sight of tears and was ready to cry himself. | |
“Calm yourself, Princess! It seems so to you because.... I assure you | |
I myself have experienced ... and so ... because ... No, excuse me! | |
An outsider is out of place here.... No, don’t distress yourself.... | |
Good-by!” | |
Prince Andrew caught him by the hand. | |
“No, wait, Pierre! The princess is too kind to wish to deprive me of | |
the pleasure of spending the evening with you.” | |
“No, he thinks only of himself,” muttered the princess without | |
restraining her angry tears. | |
“Lise!” said Prince Andrew dryly, raising his voice to the pitch | |
which indicates that patience is exhausted. | |
Suddenly the angry, squirrel-like expression of the princess’ pretty | |
face changed into a winning and piteous look of fear. Her beautiful eyes | |
glanced askance at her husband’s face, and her own assumed the timid, | |
deprecating expression of a dog when it rapidly but feebly wags its | |
drooping tail. | |
“Mon Dieu, mon Dieu!” she muttered, and lifting her dress with one | |
hand she went up to her husband and kissed him on the forehead. | |
“Good night, Lise,” said he, rising and courteously kissing her hand | |
as he would have done to a stranger. | |
CHAPTER VIII | |
The friends were silent. Neither cared to begin talking. Pierre | |
continually glanced at Prince Andrew; Prince Andrew rubbed his forehead | |
with his small hand. | |
“Let us go and have supper,” he said with a sigh, going to the door. | |
They entered the elegant, newly decorated, and luxurious dining room. | |
Everything from the table napkins to the silver, china, and glass bore | |
that imprint of newness found in the households of the newly married. | |
Halfway through supper Prince Andrew leaned his elbows on the table and, | |
with a look of nervous agitation such as Pierre had never before seen on | |
his face, began to talk—as one who has long had something on his mind | |
and suddenly determines to speak out. | |
“Never, never marry, my dear fellow! That’s my advice: never marry | |
till you can say to yourself that you have done all you are capable of, | |
and until you have ceased to love the woman of your choice and have seen | |
her plainly as she is, or else you will make a cruel and irrevocable | |
mistake. Marry when you are old and good for nothing—or all that is | |
good and noble in you will be lost. It will all be wasted on trifles. | |
Yes! Yes! Yes! Don’t look at me with such surprise. If you marry | |
expecting anything from yourself in the future, you will feel at every | |
step that for you all is ended, all is closed except the drawing | |
room, where you will be ranged side by side with a court lackey and an | |
idiot!... But what’s the good?...” and he waved his arm. | |
Pierre took off his spectacles, which made his face seem different and | |
the good-natured expression still more apparent, and gazed at his friend | |
in amazement. | |
“My wife,” continued Prince Andrew, “is an excellent woman, one | |
of those rare women with whom a man’s honor is safe; but, O God, what | |
would I not give now to be unmarried! You are the first and only one to | |
whom I mention this, because I like you.” | |
As he said this Prince Andrew was less than ever like that Bolkónski | |
who had lolled in Anna Pávlovna’s easy chairs and with half-closed | |
eyes had uttered French phrases between his teeth. Every muscle of his | |
thin face was now quivering with nervous excitement; his eyes, in which | |
the fire of life had seemed extinguished, now flashed with brilliant | |
light. It was evident that the more lifeless he seemed at ordinary | |
times, the more impassioned he became in these moments of almost morbid | |
irritation. | |
“You don’t understand why I say this,” he continued, “but it is | |
the whole story of life. You talk of Bonaparte and his career,” said | |
he (though Pierre had not mentioned Bonaparte), “but Bonaparte when | |
he worked went step by step toward his goal. He was free, he had nothing | |
but his aim to consider, and he reached it. But tie yourself up with | |
a woman and, like a chained convict, you lose all freedom! And all you | |
have of hope and strength merely weighs you down and torments you with | |
regret. Drawing rooms, gossip, balls, vanity, and triviality—these are | |
the enchanted circle I cannot escape from. I am now going to the war, | |
the greatest war there ever was, and I know nothing and am fit for | |
nothing. I am very amiable and have a caustic wit,” continued Prince | |
Andrew, “and at Anna Pávlovna’s they listen to me. And that stupid | |
set without whom my wife cannot exist, and those women.... If you only | |
knew what those society women are, and women in general! My father is | |
right. Selfish, vain, stupid, trivial in everything—that’s what | |
women are when you see them in their true colors! When you meet them | |
in society it seems as if there were something in them, but there’s | |
nothing, nothing, nothing! No, don’t marry, my dear fellow; don’t | |
marry!” concluded Prince Andrew. | |
“It seems funny to me,” said Pierre, “that you, you should | |
consider yourself incapable and your life a spoiled life. You have | |
everything before you, everything. And you....” | |
He did not finish his sentence, but his tone showed how highly he | |
thought of his friend and how much he expected of him in the future. | |
“How can he talk like that?” thought Pierre. He considered his | |
friend a model of perfection because Prince Andrew possessed in the | |
highest degree just the very qualities Pierre lacked, and which might | |
be best described as strength of will. Pierre was always astonished at | |
Prince Andrew’s calm manner of treating everybody, his extraordinary | |
memory, his extensive reading (he had read everything, knew everything, | |
and had an opinion about everything), but above all at his capacity for | |
work and study. And if Pierre was often struck by Andrew’s lack | |
of capacity for philosophical meditation (to which he himself was | |
particularly addicted), he regarded even this not as a defect but as a | |
sign of strength. | |
Even in the best, most friendly and simplest relations of life, praise | |
and commendation are essential, just as grease is necessary to wheels | |
that they may run smoothly. | |
“My part is played out,” said Prince Andrew. “What’s the use of | |
talking about me? Let us talk about you,” he added after a silence, | |
smiling at his reassuring thoughts. | |
That smile was immediately reflected on Pierre’s face. | |
“But what is there to say about me?” said Pierre, his face relaxing | |
into a careless, merry smile. “What am I? An illegitimate son!” | |
He suddenly blushed crimson, and it was plain that he had made a great | |
effort to say this. “Without a name and without means... And it | |
really...” But he did not say what “it really” was. “For the | |
present I am free and am all right. Only I haven’t the least idea what | |
I am to do; I wanted to consult you seriously.” | |
Prince Andrew looked kindly at him, yet his glance—friendly and | |
affectionate as it was—expressed a sense of his own superiority. | |
“I am fond of you, especially as you are the one live man among our | |
whole set. Yes, you’re all right! Choose what you will; it’s all the | |
same. You’ll be all right anywhere. But look here: give up visiting | |
those Kurágins and leading that sort of life. It suits you so | |
badly—all this debauchery, dissipation, and the rest of it!” | |
“What would you have, my dear fellow?” answered Pierre, shrugging | |
his shoulders. “Women, my dear fellow; women!” | |
“I don’t understand it,” replied Prince Andrew. “Women who are | |
comme il faut, that’s a different matter; but the Kurágins’ set of | |
women, ‘women and wine’ I don’t understand!” | |
Pierre was staying at Prince Vasíli Kurágin’s and sharing the | |
dissipated life of his son Anatole, the son whom they were planning to | |
reform by marrying him to Prince Andrew’s sister. | |
“Do you know?” said Pierre, as if suddenly struck by a happy | |
thought, “seriously, I have long been thinking of it.... Leading such | |
a life I can’t decide or think properly about anything. One’s head | |
aches, and one spends all one’s money. He asked me for tonight, but I | |
won’t go.” | |
“You give me your word of honor not to go?” | |
“On my honor!” | |
CHAPTER IX | |
It was past one o’clock when Pierre left his friend. It was a | |
cloudless, northern, summer night. Pierre took an open cab intending | |
to drive straight home. But the nearer he drew to the house the more he | |
felt the impossibility of going to sleep on such a night. It was light | |
enough to see a long way in the deserted street and it seemed more like | |
morning or evening than night. On the way Pierre remembered that Anatole | |
Kurágin was expecting the usual set for cards that evening, after which | |
there was generally a drinking bout, finishing with visits of a kind | |
Pierre was very fond of. | |
“I should like to go to Kurágin’s,” thought he. | |
But he immediately recalled his promise to Prince Andrew not to go | |
there. Then, as happens to people of weak character, he desired so | |
passionately once more to enjoy that dissipation he was so accustomed to | |
that he decided to go. The thought immediately occurred to him that his | |
promise to Prince Andrew was of no account, because before he gave it | |
he had already promised Prince Anatole to come to his gathering; | |
“besides,” thought he, “all such ‘words of honor’ are | |
conventional things with no definite meaning, especially if | |
one considers that by tomorrow one may be dead, or something so | |
extraordinary may happen to one that honor and dishonor will be all the | |
same!” Pierre often indulged in reflections of this sort, nullifying | |
all his decisions and intentions. He went to Kurágin’s. | |
Reaching the large house near the Horse Guards’ barracks, in which | |
Anatole lived, Pierre entered the lighted porch, ascended the stairs, | |
and went in at the open door. There was no one in the anteroom; empty | |
bottles, cloaks, and overshoes were lying about; there was a smell of | |
alcohol, and sounds of voices and shouting in the distance. | |
Cards and supper were over, but the visitors had not yet dispersed. | |
Pierre threw off his cloak and entered the first room, in which were the | |
remains of supper. A footman, thinking no one saw him, was drinking on | |
the sly what was left in the glasses. From the third room came sounds of | |
laughter, the shouting of familiar voices, the growling of a bear, and | |
general commotion. Some eight or nine young men were crowding anxiously | |
round an open window. Three others were romping with a young bear, one | |
pulling him by the chain and trying to set him at the others. | |
“I bet a hundred on Stevens!” shouted one. | |
“Mind, no holding on!” cried another. | |
“I bet on Dólokhov!” cried a third. “Kurágin, you part our | |
hands.” | |
“There, leave Bruin alone; here’s a bet on.” | |
“At one draught, or he loses!” shouted a fourth. | |
“Jacob, bring a bottle!” shouted the host, a tall, handsome fellow | |
who stood in the midst of the group, without a coat, and with his fine | |
linen shirt unfastened in front. “Wait a bit, you fellows.... Here is | |
Pétya! Good man!” cried he, addressing Pierre. | |
Another voice, from a man of medium height with clear blue eyes, | |
particularly striking among all these drunken voices by its sober | |
ring, cried from the window: “Come here; part the bets!” This was | |
Dólokhov, an officer of the Semënov regiment, a notorious gambler and | |
duelist, who was living with Anatole. Pierre smiled, looking about him | |
merrily. | |
“I don’t understand. What’s it all about?” | |
“Wait a bit, he is not drunk yet! A bottle here,” said Anatole, and | |
taking a glass from the table he went up to Pierre. | |
“First of all you must drink!” | |
Pierre drank one glass after another, looking from under his brows at | |
the tipsy guests who were again crowding round the window, and listening | |
to their chatter. Anatole kept on refilling Pierre’s glass while | |
explaining that Dólokhov was betting with Stevens, an English naval | |
officer, that he would drink a bottle of rum sitting on the outer ledge | |
of the third floor window with his legs hanging out. | |
“Go on, you must drink it all,” said Anatole, giving Pierre the last | |
glass, “or I won’t let you go!” | |
“No, I won’t,” said Pierre, pushing Anatole aside, and he went up | |
to the window. | |
Dólokhov was holding the Englishman’s hand and clearly and distinctly | |
repeating the terms of the bet, addressing himself particularly to | |
Anatole and Pierre. | |
Dólokhov was of medium height, with curly hair and light-blue eyes. He | |
was about twenty-five. Like all infantry officers he wore no mustache, | |
so that his mouth, the most striking feature of his face, was clearly | |
seen. The lines of that mouth were remarkably finely curved. The middle | |
of the upper lip formed a sharp wedge and closed firmly on the firm | |
lower one, and something like two distinct smiles played continually | |
round the two corners of the mouth; this, together with the resolute, | |
insolent intelligence of his eyes, produced an effect which made it | |
impossible not to notice his face. Dólokhov was a man of small means | |
and no connections. Yet, though Anatole spent tens of thousands of | |
rubles, Dólokhov lived with him and had placed himself on such a | |
footing that all who knew them, including Anatole himself, respected him | |
more than they did Anatole. Dólokhov could play all games and nearly | |
always won. However much he drank, he never lost his clearheadedness. | |
Both Kurágin and Dólokhov were at that time notorious among the rakes | |
and scapegraces of Petersburg. | |
The bottle of rum was brought. The window frame which prevented anyone | |
from sitting on the outer sill was being forced out by two footmen, who | |
were evidently flurried and intimidated by the directions and shouts of | |
the gentlemen around. | |
Anatole with his swaggering air strode up to the window. He wanted to | |
smash something. Pushing away the footmen he tugged at the frame, but | |
could not move it. He smashed a pane. | |
“You have a try, Hercules,” said he, turning to Pierre. | |
Pierre seized the crossbeam, tugged, and wrenched the oak frame out with | |
a crash. | |
“Take it right out, or they’ll think I’m holding on,” said | |
Dólokhov. | |
“Is the Englishman bragging?... Eh? Is it all right?” said Anatole. | |
“First-rate,” said Pierre, looking at Dólokhov, who with a bottle | |
of rum in his hand was approaching the window, from which the light of | |
the sky, the dawn merging with the afterglow of sunset, was visible. | |
Dólokhov, the bottle of rum still in his hand, jumped onto the window | |
sill. “Listen!” cried he, standing there and addressing those in the | |
room. All were silent. | |
“I bet fifty imperials”—he spoke French that the Englishman might | |
understand him, but he did not speak it very well—“I bet fifty | |
imperials ... or do you wish to make it a hundred?” added he, | |
addressing the Englishman. | |
“No, fifty,” replied the latter. | |
“All right. Fifty imperials ... that I will drink a whole bottle of | |
rum without taking it from my mouth, sitting outside the window on this | |
spot” (he stooped and pointed to the sloping ledge outside the window) | |
“and without holding on to anything. Is that right?” | |
“Quite right,” said the Englishman. | |
Anatole turned to the Englishman and taking him by one of the buttons | |
of his coat and looking down at him—the Englishman was short—began | |
repeating the terms of the wager to him in English. | |
“Wait!” cried Dólokhov, hammering with the bottle on the window | |
sill to attract attention. “Wait a bit, Kurágin. Listen! If | |
anyone else does the same, I will pay him a hundred imperials. Do you | |
understand?” | |
The Englishman nodded, but gave no indication whether he intended to | |
accept this challenge or not. Anatole did not release him, and though | |
he kept nodding to show that he understood, Anatole went on translating | |
Dólokhov’s words into English. A thin young lad, an hussar of the | |
Life Guards, who had been losing that evening, climbed on the window | |
sill, leaned over, and looked down. | |
“Oh! Oh! Oh!” he muttered, looking down from the window at the | |
stones of the pavement. | |
“Shut up!” cried Dólokhov, pushing him away from the window. The | |
lad jumped awkwardly back into the room, tripping over his spurs. | |
Placing the bottle on the window sill where he could reach it easily, | |
Dólokhov climbed carefully and slowly through the window and lowered | |
his legs. Pressing against both sides of the window, he adjusted himself | |
on his seat, lowered his hands, moved a little to the right and then to | |
the left, and took up the bottle. Anatole brought two candles and | |
placed them on the window sill, though it was already quite light. | |
Dólokhov’s back in his white shirt, and his curly head, were lit | |
up from both sides. Everyone crowded to the window, the Englishman in | |
front. Pierre stood smiling but silent. One man, older than the others | |
present, suddenly pushed forward with a scared and angry look and wanted | |
to seize hold of Dólokhov’s shirt. | |
“I say, this is folly! He’ll be killed,” said this more sensible | |
man. | |
Anatole stopped him. | |
“Don’t touch him! You’ll startle him and then he’ll be killed. | |
Eh?... What then?... Eh?” | |
Dólokhov turned round and, again holding on with both hands, arranged | |
himself on his seat. | |
“If anyone comes meddling again,” said he, emitting the words | |
separately through his thin compressed lips, “I will throw him down | |
there. Now then!” | |
Saying this he again turned round, dropped his hands, took the bottle | |
and lifted it to his lips, threw back his head, and raised his free hand | |
to balance himself. One of the footmen who had stooped to pick up some | |
broken glass remained in that position without taking his eyes from the | |
window and from Dólokhov’s back. Anatole stood erect with staring | |
eyes. The Englishman looked on sideways, pursing up his lips. The man | |
who had wished to stop the affair ran to a corner of the room and threw | |
himself on a sofa with his face to the wall. Pierre hid his face, from | |
which a faint smile forgot to fade though his features now expressed | |
horror and fear. All were still. Pierre took his hands from his eyes. | |
Dólokhov still sat in the same position, only his head was thrown | |
further back till his curly hair touched his shirt collar, and the hand | |
holding the bottle was lifted higher and higher and trembled with the | |
effort. The bottle was emptying perceptibly and rising still higher | |
and his head tilting yet further back. “Why is it so long?” thought | |
Pierre. It seemed to him that more than half an hour had elapsed. | |
Suddenly Dólokhov made a backward movement with his spine, and his arm | |
trembled nervously; this was sufficient to cause his whole body to slip | |
as he sat on the sloping ledge. As he began slipping down, his head and | |
arm wavered still more with the strain. One hand moved as if to clutch | |
the window sill, but refrained from touching it. Pierre again covered | |
his eyes and thought he would never open them again. Suddenly he was | |
aware of a stir all around. He looked up: Dólokhov was standing on the | |
window sill, with a pale but radiant face. | |
“It’s empty.” | |
He threw the bottle to the Englishman, who caught it neatly. Dólokhov | |
jumped down. He smelt strongly of rum. | |
“Well done!... Fine fellow!... There’s a bet for you!... Devil take | |
you!” came from different sides. | |
The Englishman took out his purse and began counting out the money. | |
Dólokhov stood frowning and did not speak. Pierre jumped upon the | |
window sill. | |
“Gentlemen, who wishes to bet with me? I’ll do the same thing!” | |
he suddenly cried. “Even without a bet, there! Tell them to bring me a | |
bottle. I’ll do it.... Bring a bottle!” | |
“Let him do it, let him do it,” said Dólokhov, smiling. | |
“What next? Have you gone mad?... No one would let you!... Why, you go | |
giddy even on a staircase,” exclaimed several voices. | |
“I’ll drink it! Let’s have a bottle of rum!” shouted Pierre, | |
banging the table with a determined and drunken gesture and preparing to | |
climb out of the window. | |
They seized him by his arms; but he was so strong that everyone who | |
touched him was sent flying. | |
“No, you’ll never manage him that way,” said Anatole. “Wait a | |
bit and I’ll get round him.... Listen! I’ll take your bet tomorrow, | |
but now we are all going to ——’s.” | |
“Come on then,” cried Pierre. “Come on!... And we’ll take Bruin | |
with us.” | |
And he caught the bear, took it in his arms, lifted it from the ground, | |
and began dancing round the room with it. | |
CHAPTER X | |
Prince Vasíli kept the promise he had given to Princess Drubetskáya | |
who had spoken to him on behalf of her only son Borís on the evening of | |
Anna Pávlovna’s soiree. The matter was mentioned to the Emperor, an | |
exception made, and Borís transferred into the regiment of Semënov | |
Guards with the rank of cornet. He received, however, no appointment | |
to Kutúzov’s staff despite all Anna Mikháylovna’s endeavors and | |
entreaties. Soon after Anna Pávlovna’s reception Anna Mikháylovna | |
returned to Moscow and went straight to her rich relations, the | |
Rostóvs, with whom she stayed when in the town and where her darling | |
Bóry, who had only just entered a regiment of the line and was being | |
at once transferred to the Guards as a cornet, had been educated from | |
childhood and lived for years at a time. The Guards had already left | |
Petersburg on the tenth of August, and her son, who had remained in | |
Moscow for his equipment, was to join them on the march to Radzivílov. | |
It was St. Natalia’s day and the name day of two of the Rostóvs—the | |
mother and the youngest daughter—both named Nataly. Ever since | |
the morning, carriages with six horses had been coming and going | |
continually, bringing visitors to the Countess Rostóva’s big house on | |
the Povarskáya, so well known to all Moscow. The countess herself and | |
her handsome eldest daughter were in the drawing room with the visitors | |
who came to congratulate, and who constantly succeeded one another in | |
relays. | |
The countess was a woman of about forty-five, with a thin Oriental type | |
of face, evidently worn out with childbearing—she had had twelve. | |
A languor of motion and speech, resulting from weakness, gave her a | |
distinguished air which inspired respect. Princess Anna Mikháylovna | |
Drubetskáya, who as a member of the household was also seated in the | |
drawing room, helped to receive and entertain the visitors. The young | |
people were in one of the inner rooms, not considering it necessary to | |
take part in receiving the visitors. The count met the guests and saw | |
them off, inviting them all to dinner. | |
“I am very, very grateful to you, mon cher,” or “ma chère”—he | |
called everyone without exception and without the slightest variation | |
in his tone, “my dear,” whether they were above or below him in | |
rank—“I thank you for myself and for our two dear ones whose name | |
day we are keeping. But mind you come to dinner or I shall be offended, | |
ma chère! On behalf of the whole family I beg you to come, mon cher!” | |
These words he repeated to everyone without exception or variation, and | |
with the same expression on his full, cheerful, clean-shaven face, the | |
same firm pressure of the hand and the same quick, repeated bows. As | |
soon as he had seen a visitor off he returned to one of those who were | |
still in the drawing room, drew a chair toward him or her, and jauntily | |
spreading out his legs and putting his hands on his knees with the air | |
of a man who enjoys life and knows how to live, he swayed to and | |
fro with dignity, offered surmises about the weather, or touched on | |
questions of health, sometimes in Russian and sometimes in very bad but | |
self-confident French; then again, like a man weary but unflinching in | |
the fulfillment of duty, he rose to see some visitors off and, stroking | |
his scanty gray hairs over his bald patch, also asked them to dinner. | |
Sometimes on his way back from the anteroom he would pass through the | |
conservatory and pantry into the large marble dining hall, where tables | |
were being set out for eighty people; and looking at the footmen, who | |
were bringing in silver and china, moving tables, and unfolding damask | |
table linen, he would call Dmítri Vasílevich, a man of good family and | |
the manager of all his affairs, and while looking with pleasure at the | |
enormous table would say: “Well, Dmítri, you’ll see that things are | |
all as they should be? That’s right! The great thing is the serving, | |
that’s it.” And with a complacent sigh he would return to the | |
drawing room. | |
“Márya Lvóvna Karágina and her daughter!” announced the | |
countess’ gigantic footman in his bass voice, entering the drawing | |
room. The countess reflected a moment and took a pinch from a gold | |
snuffbox with her husband’s portrait on it. | |
“I’m quite worn out by these callers. However, I’ll see her and | |
no more. She is so affected. Ask her in,” she said to the footman in a | |
sad voice, as if saying: “Very well, finish me off.” | |
A tall, stout, and proud-looking woman, with a round-faced smiling | |
daughter, entered the drawing room, their dresses rustling. | |
“Dear Countess, what an age... She has been laid up, poor child ... | |
at the Razumóvski’s ball ... and Countess Apráksina ... I was | |
so delighted...” came the sounds of animated feminine voices, | |
interrupting one another and mingling with the rustling of dresses and | |
the scraping of chairs. Then one of those conversations began which last | |
out until, at the first pause, the guests rise with a rustle of dresses | |
and say, “I am so delighted... Mamma’s health... and Countess | |
Apráksina...” and then, again rustling, pass into the anteroom, put | |
on cloaks or mantles, and drive away. The conversation was on the chief | |
topic of the day: the illness of the wealthy and celebrated beau of | |
Catherine’s day, Count Bezúkhov, and about his illegitimate son | |
Pierre, the one who had behaved so improperly at Anna Pávlovna’s | |
reception. | |
“I am so sorry for the poor count,” said the visitor. “He is in | |
such bad health, and now this vexation about his son is enough to kill | |
him!” | |
“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 Bezúkhov’s distress some fifteen times. | |
“That’s what comes of a modern education,” exclaimed the visitor. | |
“It seems that while he was abroad this young man was allowed to do | |
as he liked, now in Petersburg I hear he has been doing such terrible | |
things that he has been expelled by the police.” | |
“You don’t say so!” replied the countess. | |
“He chose his friends badly,” interposed Anna Mikháylovna. | |
“Prince Vasíli’s son, he, and a certain Dólokhov have, it is said, | |
been up to heaven only knows what! And they have had to suffer for it. | |
Dólokhov has been degraded to the ranks and Bezúkhov’s son sent | |
back to Moscow. Anatole Kurágin’s father managed somehow to get his | |
son’s affair hushed up, but even he was ordered out of Petersburg.” | |
“But what have they been up to?” asked the countess. | |
“They are regular brigands, especially Dólokhov,” replied the | |
visitor. “He is a son of Márya Ivánovna Dólokhova, such a worthy | |
woman, but there, just fancy! Those three got hold of a bear somewhere, | |
put it in a carriage, and set off with it to visit some actresses! The | |
police tried to interfere, and what did the young men do? They tied | |
a policeman and the bear back to back and put the bear into the Moyka | |
Canal. And there was the bear swimming about with the policeman on his | |
back!” | |
“What a nice figure the policeman must have cut, my dear!” shouted | |
the count, dying with laughter. | |
“Oh, how dreadful! How can you laugh at it, Count?” | |
Yet the ladies themselves could not help laughing. | |
“It was all they could do to rescue the poor man,” continued the | |
visitor. “And to think it is Cyril Vladímirovich Bezúkhov’s son | |
who amuses himself in this sensible manner! And he was said to be so | |
well educated and clever. This is all that his foreign education has | |
done for him! I hope that here in Moscow no one will receive him, in | |
spite of his money. They wanted to introduce him to me, but I quite | |
declined: I have my daughters to consider.” | |
“Why do you say this young man is so rich?” asked the countess, | |
turning away from the girls, who at once assumed an air of inattention. | |
“His children are all illegitimate. I think Pierre also is | |
illegitimate.” | |
The visitor made a gesture with her hand. | |
“I should think he has a score of them.” | |
Princess Anna Mikháylovna intervened in the conversation, evidently | |
wishing to show her connections and knowledge of what went on in | |
society. | |
“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.” | |
“How handsome the old man still was only a year ago!” remarked the | |
countess. “I have never seen a handsomer man.” | |
“He is very much altered now,” said Anna Mikháylovna. “Well, as | |
I was saying, Prince Vasíli is the next heir through his wife, but the | |
count is very fond of Pierre, looked after his education, and wrote to | |
the Emperor about him; so that in the case of his death—and he is | |
so ill that he may die at any moment, and Dr. Lorrain has come from | |
Petersburg—no one knows who will inherit his immense fortune, Pierre | |
or Prince Vasíli. Forty thousand serfs and millions of rubles! I know | |
it all very well for Prince Vasíli told me himself. Besides, Cyril | |
Vladímirovich is my mother’s second cousin. He’s also my Bóry’s | |
godfather,” she added, as if she attached no importance at all to the | |
fact. | |
“Prince Vasíli arrived in Moscow yesterday. I hear he has come on | |
some inspection business,” remarked the visitor. | |
“Yes, but between ourselves,” said the princess, “that is a | |
pretext. The fact is he has come to see Count Cyril Vladímirovich, | |
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. “I can just imagine what a funny figure that policeman | |
cut!” | |
And as he waved his arms to impersonate the policeman, his portly form | |
again shook with a deep ringing laugh, the laugh of one who always eats | |
well and, in particular, drinks well. “So do come and dine with us!” | |
he said. | |
CHAPTER XI | |
Silence ensued. The countess looked at her callers, smiling affably, | |
but not concealing the fact that she would not be distressed if they | |
now rose and took their leave. The visitor’s daughter was already | |
smoothing down her dress with an inquiring look at her mother, when | |
suddenly from the next room were heard the footsteps of boys and girls | |
running to the door and the noise of a chair falling over, and a girl | |
of thirteen, hiding something in the folds of her short muslin frock, | |
darted in and stopped short in the middle of the room. It was evident | |
that she had not intended her flight to bring her so far. Behind her in | |
the doorway appeared a student with a crimson coat collar, an officer | |
of the Guards, a girl of fifteen, and a plump rosy-faced boy in a short | |
jacket. | |
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. | |
“Ah, here she is!” he exclaimed laughing. “My pet, whose name day | |
it is. My dear pet!” | |
“Ma chère, there is a time for everything,” said the countess with | |
feigned severity. “You spoil her, Ilyá,” 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. | |
This black-eyed, wide-mouthed girl, not pretty but full of life—with | |
childish bare shoulders which after her run heaved and shook her | |
bodice, with black curls tossed backward, thin bare arms, little legs | |
in lace-frilled drawers, and feet in low slippers—was just at that | |
charming age when a girl is no longer a child, though the child is not | |
yet a young woman. Escaping from her father she ran to hide her flushed | |
face in the lace of her mother’s mantilla—not paying the least | |
attention to her severe remark—and began to laugh. She laughed, and in | |
fragmentary sentences tried to explain about a doll which she produced | |
from the folds of her frock. | |
“Do you see?... My doll... Mimi... You see...” was all Natásha | |
managed to utter (to her everything seemed funny). She leaned against | |
her mother and burst into such a loud, ringing fit of laughter that even | |
the prim visitor could not help joining in. | |
“Now then, go away and take your monstrosity with you,” said the | |
mother, pushing away her daughter with pretended sternness, and turning | |
to the visitor she added: “She is my youngest girl.” | |
Natásha, raising her face for a moment from her mother’s mantilla, | |
glanced up at her through tears of laughter, and again hid her face. | |
The visitor, compelled to look on at this family scene, thought it | |
necessary to take some part in it. | |
“Tell me, my dear,” said she to Natásha, “is Mimi a relation of | |
yours? A daughter, I suppose?” | |
Natásha did not like the visitor’s tone of condescension to childish | |
things. She did not reply, but looked at her seriously. | |
Meanwhile the younger generation: Borís, the officer, Anna | |
Mikháylovna’s son; Nicholas, the undergraduate, the count’s eldest | |
son; Sónya, the count’s fifteen-year-old niece, and little Pétya, | |
his youngest boy, had all settled down in the drawing room and were | |
obviously trying to restrain within the bounds of decorum the excitement | |
and mirth that shone in all their faces. Evidently in the back rooms, | |
from which they had dashed out so impetuously, the conversation had | |
been more amusing than the drawing room talk of society scandals, the | |
weather, and Countess Apráksina. Now and then they glanced at one | |
another, hardly able to suppress their laughter. | |
The two young men, the student and the officer, friends from childhood, | |
were of the same age and both handsome fellows, though not alike. Borís | |
was tall and fair, and his calm and handsome face had regular, delicate | |
features. Nicholas was short with curly hair and an open expression. | |
Dark hairs were already showing on his upper lip, and his whole face | |
expressed impetuosity and enthusiasm. Nicholas blushed when he entered | |
the drawing room. He evidently tried to find something to say, but | |
failed. Borís on the contrary at once found his footing, and related | |
quietly and humorously how he had known that doll Mimi when she was | |
still quite a young lady, before her nose was broken; how she had aged | |
during the five years he had known her, and how her head had cracked | |
right across the skull. Having said this he glanced at Natásha. | |
She turned away from him and glanced at her younger brother, who was | |
screwing up his eyes and shaking with suppressed laughter, and unable | |
to control herself any longer, she jumped up and rushed from the room as | |
fast as her nimble little feet would carry her. Borís did not laugh. | |
“You were meaning to go out, weren’t you, Mamma? Do you want the | |
carriage?” he asked his mother with a smile. | |
“Yes, yes, go and tell them to get it ready,” she answered, | |
returning his smile. | |
Borís quietly left the room and went in search of Natásha. The plump | |
boy ran after them angrily, as if vexed that their program had been | |
disturbed. | |
CHAPTER XII | |
The only young people remaining in the drawing room, not counting the | |
young lady visitor and the countess’ eldest daughter (who was four | |
years older than her sister and behaved already like a grown-up person), | |
were Nicholas and Sónya, the niece. Sónya was a slender little | |
brunette with a tender look in her eyes which were veiled by long | |
lashes, thick black plaits coiling twice round her head, and a tawny | |
tint in her complexion and especially in the color of her slender but | |
graceful and muscular arms and neck. By the grace of her movements, | |
by the softness and flexibility of her small limbs, and by a certain | |
coyness and reserve of manner, she reminded one of a pretty, half-grown | |
kitten which promises to become a beautiful little cat. She evidently | |
considered it proper to show an interest in the general conversation by | |
smiling, but in spite of herself her eyes under their thick long lashes | |
watched her cousin who was going to join the army, with such passionate | |
girlish adoration that her smile could not for a single instant impose | |
upon anyone, and it was clear that the kitten had settled down only to | |
spring up with more energy and again play with her cousin as soon as | |
they too could, like Natásha and Borís, escape from the drawing room. | |
“Ah yes, my dear,” said the count, addressing the visitor and | |
pointing to Nicholas, “his friend Borís 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. And there was a | |
place and everything waiting for him in the Archives Department! Isn’t | |
that friendship?” remarked the count in an inquiring tone. | |
“But they say that war has been declared,” replied the visitor. | |
“They’ve been saying so a long while,” said the count, “and | |
they’ll say so again and again, and that will be the end of it. My | |
dear, there’s friendship for you,” he repeated. “He’s joining | |
the hussars.” | |
The visitor, not knowing what to say, shook her head. | |
“It’s not at all from friendship,” declared Nicholas, flaring | |
up and turning away as if from a shameful aspersion. “It is not from | |
friendship at all; I simply feel that the army is my vocation.” | |
He glanced at his cousin and the young lady visitor; and they were both | |
regarding him with a smile of approbation. | |
“Schubert, the colonel of the Pávlograd Hussars, is dining with us | |
today. He has been here on leave and is taking Nicholas back with him. | |
It can’t be helped!” said the count, shrugging his shoulders and | |
speaking playfully of a matter that evidently distressed him. | |
“I have already told you, Papa,” said his son, “that if you | |
don’t wish to let me go, I’ll stay. But I know I am no use anywhere | |
except in the army; I am not a diplomat or a government clerk.—I | |
don’t know how to hide what I feel.” As he spoke he kept glancing | |
with the flirtatiousness of a handsome youth at Sónya and the young | |
lady visitor. | |
The little kitten, feasting her eyes on him, seemed ready at any moment | |
to start her gambols again and display her kittenish nature. | |
“All right, all right!” said the old count. “He always flares up! | |
This Buonaparte has turned all their heads; they all think of how he | |
rose from an ensign and became Emperor. Well, well, God grant it,” he | |
added, not noticing his visitor’s sarcastic smile. | |
The elders began talking about Bonaparte. Julie Karágina turned to | |
young Rostóv. | |
“What a pity you weren’t at the Arkhárovs’ on Thursday. It was so | |
dull without you,” said she, giving him a tender smile. | |
The young man, flattered, sat down nearer to her with a coquettish | |
smile, and engaged the smiling Julie in a confidential conversation | |
without at all noticing that his involuntary smile had stabbed the heart | |
of Sónya, who blushed and smiled unnaturally. In the midst of his talk | |
he glanced round at her. She gave him a passionately angry glance, and | |
hardly able to restrain her tears and maintain the artificial smile | |
on her lips, she got up and left the room. All Nicholas’ animation | |
vanished. He waited for the first pause in the conversation, and then | |
with a distressed face left the room to find Sónya. | |
“How plainly all these young people wear their hearts on their | |
sleeves!” said Anna Mikháylovna, pointing to Nicholas as he went out. | |
“Cousinage—dangereux voisinage,” * she added. | |
* Cousinhood is a dangerous neighborhood. | |
“Yes,” said the countess when the brightness these young people had | |
brought into the room had vanished; and as if answering a question no | |
one had put but which was always in her mind, “and how much suffering, | |
how much anxiety one has had to go through that we might rejoice in | |
them now! And yet really the anxiety is greater now than the joy. One is | |
always, always anxious! Especially just at this age, so dangerous both | |
for girls and boys.” | |
“It all depends on the bringing up,” remarked the visitor. | |
“Yes, you’re quite right,” continued the countess. “Till now I | |
have always, thank God, been my children’s friend and had their full | |
confidence,” said she, repeating the mistake of so many parents who | |
imagine that their children have no secrets from them. “I know I shall | |
always be my daughters’ first confidante, and that if Nicholas, with | |
his impulsive nature, does get into mischief (a boy can’t help it), he | |
will all the same never be like those Petersburg young men.” | |
“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. “Just fancy: wants to be an hussar. | |
What’s one to do, my dear?” | |
“What a charming creature your younger girl is,” said the visitor; | |
“a little volcano!” | |
“Yes, a regular volcano,” said the count. “Takes after me! And | |
what a voice she has; though she’s my daughter, I tell the truth | |
when I say she’ll be a singer, a second Salomoni! We have engaged an | |
Italian to give her lessons.” | |
“Isn’t she too young? I have heard that it harms the voice to train | |
it at that age.” | |
“Oh no, not at all too young!” replied the count. “Why, our | |
mothers used to be married at twelve or thirteen.” | |
“And she’s in love with Borís already. Just fancy!” said the | |
countess with a gentle smile, looking at Borís and went on, evidently | |
concerned with a thought that always occupied her: “Now you see if I | |
were to be severe with her and to forbid it ... goodness knows what they | |
might be up to on the sly” (she meant that they would be kissing), | |
“but as it is, I know every word she utters. She will come running to | |
me of her own accord in the evening and tell me everything. Perhaps I | |
spoil her, but really that seems the best plan. With her elder sister I | |
was stricter.” | |
“Yes, I was brought up quite differently,” remarked the handsome | |
elder daughter, Countess Véra, with a smile. | |
But the smile did not enhance Véra’s beauty as smiles generally do; | |
on the contrary it gave her an unnatural, and therefore unpleasant, | |
expression. Véra was good-looking, not at all stupid, quick at | |
learning, was well brought up, and had a pleasant voice; what she said | |
was true and appropriate, yet, strange to say, everyone—the visitors | |
and countess alike—turned to look at her as if wondering why she had | |
said it, and they all felt awkward. | |
“People are always too clever with their eldest children and try to | |
make something exceptional of them,” said the visitor. | |
“What’s the good of denying it, my dear? Our dear countess was too | |
clever with Véra,” said the count. “Well, what of that? She’s | |
turned out splendidly all the same,” he added, winking at Véra. | |
The guests got up and took their leave, promising to return to dinner. | |
“What manners! I thought they would never go,” said the countess, | |
when she had seen her guests out. | |
CHAPTER XIII | |
When Natásha ran out of the drawing room she only went as far as the | |
conservatory. There she paused and stood listening to the conversation | |
in the drawing room, waiting for Borís to come out. She was already | |
growing impatient, and stamped her foot, ready to cry at his not coming | |
at once, when she heard the young man’s discreet steps approaching | |
neither quickly nor slowly. At this Natásha dashed swiftly among the | |
flower tubs and hid there. | |
Borís paused in the middle of the room, looked round, brushed a little | |
dust from the sleeve of his uniform, and going up to a mirror examined | |
his handsome face. Natásha, very still, peered out from her ambush, | |
waiting to see what he would do. He stood a little while before the | |
glass, smiled, and walked toward the other door. Natásha was about to | |
call him but changed her mind. “Let him look for me,” thought she. | |
Hardly had Borís gone than Sónya, flushed, in tears, and muttering | |
angrily, came in at the other door. Natásha checked her first impulse | |
to run out to her, and remained in her hiding place, watching—as | |
under an invisible cap—to see what went on in the world. She was | |
experiencing a new and peculiar pleasure. Sónya, muttering to herself, | |
kept looking round toward the drawing room door. It opened and Nicholas | |
came in. | |
“Sónya, what is the matter with you? How can you?” said he, running | |
up to her. | |
“It’s nothing, nothing; leave me alone!” sobbed Sónya. | |
“Ah, I know what it is.” | |
“Well, if you do, so much the better, and you can go back to her!” | |
“Só-o-onya! Look here! How can you torture me and yourself like that, | |
for a mere fancy?” said Nicholas taking her hand. | |
Sónya did not pull it away, and left off crying. Natásha, not stirring | |
and scarcely breathing, watched from her ambush with sparkling eyes. | |
“What will happen now?” thought she. | |
“Sónya! What is anyone in the world to me? You alone are | |
everything!” said Nicholas. “And I will prove it to you.” | |
“I don’t like you to talk like that.” | |
“Well, then, I won’t; only forgive me, Sónya!” He drew her to him | |
and kissed her. | |
“Oh, how nice,” thought Natásha; and when Sónya and Nicholas had | |
gone out of the conservatory she followed and called Borís to her. | |
“Borís, come here,” said she with a sly and significant look. “I | |
have something to tell you. Here, here!” and she led him into the | |
conservatory to the place among the tubs where she had been hiding. | |
Borís followed her, smiling. | |
“What is the something?” asked he. | |
She grew confused, glanced round, and, seeing the doll she had thrown | |
down on one of the tubs, picked it up. | |
“Kiss the doll,” said she. | |
Borís looked attentively and kindly at her eager face, but did not | |
reply. | |
“Don’t you want to? Well, then, come here,” said she, and | |
went further in among the plants and threw down the doll. “Closer, | |
closer!” she whispered. | |
She caught the young officer by his cuffs, and a look of solemnity and | |
fear appeared on her flushed face. | |
“And me? Would you like to kiss me?” she whispered almost inaudibly, | |
glancing up at him from under her brows, smiling, and almost crying from | |
excitement. | |
Borís blushed. | |
“How funny you are!” he said, bending down to her and blushing still | |
more, but he waited and did nothing. | |
Suddenly she jumped up onto a tub to be higher than he, embraced him so | |
that both her slender bare arms clasped him above his neck, and, tossing | |
back her hair, kissed him full on the lips. | |
Then she slipped down among the flowerpots on the other side of the tubs | |
and stood, hanging her head. | |
“Natásha,” he said, “you know that I love you, but....” | |
“You are in love with me?” Natásha broke in. | |
“Yes, I am, but please don’t let us do like that.... In another four | |
years ... then I will ask for your hand.” | |
Natásha considered. | |
“Thirteen, fourteen, fifteen, sixteen,” she counted on her slender | |
little fingers. “All right! Then it’s settled?” | |
A smile of joy and satisfaction lit up her eager face. | |
“Settled!” replied Borís. | |
“Forever?” said the little girl. “Till death itself?” | |
She took his arm and with a happy face went with him into the adjoining | |
sitting room. | |
CHAPTER XIV | |
After receiving her visitors, the countess was so tired that she gave | |
orders to admit no more, but the porter was told to be sure to invite to | |
dinner all who came “to congratulate.” The countess wished to have | |
a tête-à-tête talk with the friend of her childhood, Princess Anna | |
Mikháylovna, whom she had not seen properly since she returned from | |
Petersburg. Anna Mikháylovna, with her tear-worn but pleasant face, | |
drew her chair nearer to that of the countess. | |
“With you I will be quite frank,” said Anna Mikháylovna. “There | |
are not many left of us old friends! That’s why I so value your | |
friendship.” | |
Anna Mikháylovna looked at Véra and paused. The countess pressed her | |
friend’s hand. | |
“Véra,” she said to her eldest daughter who was evidently not a | |
favorite, “how is it you have so little tact? Don’t you see you are | |
not wanted here? Go to the other girls, or...” | |
The handsome Véra smiled contemptuously but did not seem at all hurt. | |
“If you had told me sooner, Mamma, I would have gone,” she replied | |
as she rose to go to her own room. | |
But as she passed the sitting room she noticed two couples sitting, | |
one pair at each window. She stopped and smiled scornfully. Sónya was | |
sitting close to Nicholas who was copying out some verses for her, the | |
first he had ever written. Borís and Natásha were at the other window | |
and ceased talking when Véra entered. Sónya and Natásha looked at | |
Véra with guilty, happy faces. | |
It was pleasant and touching to see these little girls in love; but | |
apparently the sight of them roused no pleasant feeling in Véra. | |
“How often have I asked you not to take my things?” she said. “You | |
have a room of your own,” and she took the inkstand from Nicholas. | |
“In a minute, in a minute,” he said, dipping his pen. | |
“You always manage to do things at the wrong time,” continued Véra. | |
“You came rushing into the drawing room so that everyone felt ashamed | |
of you.” | |
Though what she said was quite just, perhaps for that very reason no one | |
replied, and the four simply looked at one another. She lingered in the | |
room with the inkstand in her hand. | |
“And at your age what secrets can there be between Natásha and | |
Borís, or between you two? It’s all nonsense!” | |
“Now, Véra, what does it matter to you?” said Natásha in defense, | |
speaking very gently. | |
She seemed that day to be more than ever kind and affectionate to | |
everyone. | |
“Very silly,” said Véra. “I am ashamed of you. Secrets indeed!” | |
“All have secrets of their own,” answered Natásha, getting warmer. | |
“We don’t interfere with you and Berg.” | |
“I should think not,” said Véra, “because there can never be | |
anything wrong in my behavior. But I’ll just tell Mamma how you are | |
behaving with Borís.” | |
“Natálya Ilyníchna behaves very well to me,” remarked Borís. “I | |
have nothing to complain of.” | |
“Don’t, Borís! You are such a diplomat that it is really | |
tiresome,” said Natásha in a mortified voice that trembled slightly. | |
(She used the word “diplomat,” which was just then much in vogue | |
among the children, in the special sense they attached to it.) “Why | |
does she bother me?” And she added, turning to Véra, “You’ll | |
never understand it, because you’ve never loved anyone. You have no | |
heart! You are a Madame de Genlis and nothing more” (this nickname, | |
bestowed on Véra by Nicholas, was considered very stinging), “and | |
your greatest pleasure is to be unpleasant to people! Go and flirt with | |
Berg as much as you please,” she finished quickly. | |
“I shall at any rate not run after a young man before visitors...” | |
“Well, now you’ve done what you wanted,” put in Nicholas—“said | |
unpleasant things to everyone and upset them. Let’s go to the | |
nursery.” | |
All four, like a flock of scared birds, got up and left the room. | |
“The unpleasant things were said to me,” remarked Véra, “I said | |
none to anyone.” | |
“Madame de Genlis! Madame de Genlis!” shouted laughing voices | |
through the door. | |
The handsome Véra, who produced such an irritating and unpleasant | |
effect on everyone, smiled and, evidently unmoved by what had been | |
said to her, went to the looking glass and arranged her hair and scarf. | |
Looking at her own handsome face she seemed to become still colder and | |
calmer. | |
In the drawing room the conversation was still going on. | |
“Ah, my dear,” said the countess, “my life is not all roses | |
either. Don’t I know that at the rate we are living our means won’t | |
last long? It’s all the Club and his easygoing nature. Even in the | |
country do we get any rest? Theatricals, hunting, and heaven knows what | |
besides! But don’t let’s talk about me; tell me how you managed | |
everything. I often wonder at you, Annette—how at your age you | |
can rush off alone in a carriage to Moscow, to Petersburg, to those | |
ministers and great people, and know how to deal with them all! It’s | |
quite astonishing. How did you get things settled? I couldn’t possibly | |
do it.” | |
“Ah, my love,” answered Anna Mikháylovna, “God grant you never | |
know what it is to be left a widow without means and with a son you love | |
to distraction! One learns many things then,” she added with a certain | |
pride. “That lawsuit taught me much. When I want to see one of those | |
big people I write a note: ‘Princess So-and-So desires an interview | |
with So and-So,’ and then I take a cab and go myself two, three, or | |
four times—till I get what I want. I don’t mind what they think of | |
me.” | |
“Well, and to whom did you apply about Bóry?” asked the countess. | |
“You see yours is already an officer in the Guards, while my Nicholas | |
is going as a cadet. There’s no one to interest himself for him. To | |
whom did you apply?” | |
“To Prince Vasíli. He was so kind. He at once agreed to everything, | |
and put the matter before the Emperor,” said Princess Anna | |
Mikháylovna enthusiastically, quite forgetting all the humiliation she | |
had endured to gain her end. | |
“Has Prince Vasíli aged much?” asked the countess. “I have not | |
seen him since we acted together at the Rumyántsovs’ theatricals. I | |
expect he has forgotten me. He paid me attentions in those days,” said | |
the countess, with a smile. | |
“He is just the same as ever,” replied Anna Mikháylovna, | |
“overflowing with amiability. His position has not turned his head | |
at all. He said to me, ‘I am sorry I can do so little for you, dear | |
Princess. I am at your command.’ Yes, he is a fine fellow and a very | |
kind relation. But, Nataly, you know my love for my son: I would do | |
anything for his happiness! And my affairs are in such a bad way that my | |
position is now a terrible one,” continued Anna Mikháylovna, sadly, | |
dropping her voice. “My wretched lawsuit takes all I have and makes no | |
progress. Would you believe it, I have literally not a penny and don’t | |
know how to equip Borís.” She took out her handkerchief and began to | |
cry. “I need five hundred rubles, and have only one twenty-five-ruble | |
note. I am in such a state.... My only hope now is in Count Cyril | |
Vladímirovich Bezúkhov. If he will not assist his godson—you know | |
he is Bóry’s godfather—and allow him something for his maintenance, | |
all my trouble will have been thrown away.... I shall not be able to | |
equip him.” | |
The countess’ eyes filled with tears and she pondered in silence. | |
“I often think, though, perhaps it’s a sin,” said the princess, | |
“that here lives Count Cyril Vladímirovich Bezúkhov so rich, all | |
alone... that tremendous fortune... and what is his life worth? It’s a | |
burden to him, and Bóry’s life is only just beginning....” | |
“Surely he will leave something to Borís,” said the countess. | |
“Heaven only knows, my dear! These rich grandees are so selfish. | |
Still, I will take Borís and go to see him at once, and I shall speak | |
to him straight out. Let people think what they will of me, it’s | |
really all the same to me when my son’s fate is at stake.” The | |
princess rose. “It’s now two o’clock and you dine at four. There | |
will just be time.” | |
And like a practical Petersburg lady who knows how to make the most of | |
time, Anna Mikháylovna sent someone to call her son, and went into the | |
anteroom with him. | |
“Good-by, my dear,” said she to the countess who saw her to the | |
door, and added in a whisper so that her son should not hear, “Wish me | |
good luck.” | |
“Are you going to Count Cyril Vladímirovich, my dear?” said the | |
count coming out from the dining hall into the anteroom, and he added: | |
“If he is better, ask Pierre to dine with us. He has been to the | |
house, you know, and danced with the children. Be sure to invite him, my | |
dear. We will see how Tarás distinguishes himself today. He says Count | |
Orlóv never gave such a dinner as ours will be!” | |
CHAPTER XV | |
“My dear Borís,” said Princess Anna Mikháylovna to her son as | |
Countess Rostóva’s carriage in which they were seated drove over the | |
straw covered street and turned into the wide courtyard of Count Cyril | |
Vladímirovich Bezúkhov’s house. “My dear Borís,” said the | |
mother, drawing her hand from beneath her old mantle and laying | |
it timidly and tenderly on her son’s arm, “be affectionate and | |
attentive to him. Count Cyril Vladímirovich is your godfather after | |
all, and your future depends on him. Remember that, my dear, and be nice | |
to him, as you so well know how to be.” | |
“If only I knew that anything besides humiliation would come of | |
it...” answered her son coldly. “But I have promised and will do it | |
for your sake.” | |
Although the hall porter saw someone’s carriage standing at the | |
entrance, after scrutinizing the mother and son (who without asking to | |
be announced had passed straight through the glass porch between the | |
rows of statues in niches) and looking significantly at the lady’s old | |
cloak, he asked whether they wanted the count or the princesses, and, | |
hearing that they wished to see the count, said his excellency was worse | |
today, and that his excellency was not receiving anyone. | |
“We may as well go back,” said the son in French. | |
“My dear!” exclaimed his mother imploringly, again laying her hand | |
on his arm as if that touch might soothe or rouse him. | |
Borís said no more, but looked inquiringly at his mother without taking | |
off his cloak. | |
“My friend,” said Anna Mikháylovna in gentle tones, addressing | |
the hall porter, “I know Count Cyril Vladímirovich is very ill... | |
that’s why I have come... I am a relation. I shall not disturb him, | |
my friend... I only need see Prince Vasíli Sergéevich: he is staying | |
here, is he not? Please announce me.” | |
The hall porter sullenly pulled a bell that rang upstairs, and turned | |
away. | |
“Princess Drubetskáya to see Prince Vasíli Sergéevich,” he called | |
to a footman dressed in knee breeches, shoes, and a swallow-tail coat, | |
who ran downstairs and looked over from the halfway landing. | |
The mother smoothed the folds of her dyed silk dress before a large | |
Venetian mirror in the wall, and in her trodden-down shoes briskly | |
ascended the carpeted stairs. | |
“My dear,” she said to her son, once more stimulating him by a | |
touch, “you promised me!” | |
The son, lowering his eyes, followed her quietly. | |
They entered the large hall, from which one of the doors led to the | |
apartments assigned to Prince Vasíli. | |
Just as the mother and son, having reached the middle of the hall, were | |
about to ask their way of an elderly footman who had sprung up as they | |
entered, the bronze handle of one of the doors turned and Prince Vasíli | |
came out—wearing a velvet coat with a single star on his breast, | |
as was his custom when at home—taking leave of a good-looking, | |
dark-haired man. This was the celebrated Petersburg doctor, Lorrain. | |
“Then it is certain?” said the prince. | |
“Prince, humanum est errare, * but...” replied the doctor, | |
swallowing his r’s, and pronouncing the Latin words with a French | |
accent. | |
* To err is human. | |
“Very well, very well...” | |
Seeing Anna Mikháylovna and her son, Prince Vasíli dismissed the | |
doctor with a bow and approached them silently and with a look of | |
inquiry. The son noticed that an expression of profound sorrow suddenly | |
clouded his mother’s face, and he smiled slightly. | |
“Ah, Prince! In what sad circumstances we meet again! And how is our | |
dear invalid?” said she, as though unaware of the cold offensive look | |
fixed on her. | |
Prince Vasíli stared at her and at Borís questioningly and perplexed. | |
Borís bowed politely. Prince Vasíli without acknowledging the bow | |
turned to Anna Mikháylovna, answering her query by a movement of the | |
head and lips indicating very little hope for the patient. | |
“Is it possible?” exclaimed Anna Mikháylovna. “Oh, how awful! | |
It is terrible to think.... This is my son,” she added, indicating | |
Borís. “He wanted to thank you himself.” | |
Borís bowed again politely. | |
“Believe me, Prince, a mother’s heart will never forget what you | |
have done for us.” | |
“I am glad I was able to do you a service, my dear Anna | |
Mikháylovna,” said Prince Vasíli, arranging his lace frill, and in | |
tone and manner, here in Moscow to Anna Mikháylovna whom he had placed | |
under an obligation, assuming an air of much greater importance than he | |
had done in Petersburg at Anna Schérer’s reception. | |
“Try to serve well and show yourself worthy,” added he, addressing | |
Borís with severity. “I am glad.... Are you here on leave?” he went | |
on in his usual tone of indifference. | |
“I am awaiting orders to join my new regiment, your excellency,” | |
replied Borís, betraying neither annoyance at the prince’s brusque | |
manner nor a desire to enter into conversation, but speaking so quietly | |
and respectfully that the prince gave him a searching glance. | |
“Are you living with your mother?” | |
“I am living at Countess Rostóva’s,” replied Borís, again | |
adding, “your excellency.” | |
“That is, with Ilyá Rostóv who married Nataly Shinshiná,” said | |
Anna Mikháylovna. | |
“I know, I know,” answered Prince Vasíli in his monotonous voice. | |
“I never could understand how Nataly made up her mind to marry that | |
unlicked bear! A perfectly absurd and stupid fellow, and a gambler too, | |
I am told.” | |
“But a very kind man, Prince,” said Anna Mikháylovna with a | |
pathetic smile, as though she too knew that Count Rostóv deserved this | |
censure, but asked him not to be too hard on the poor old man. “What | |
do the doctors say?” asked the princess after a pause, her worn face | |
again expressing deep sorrow. | |
“They give little hope,” replied the prince. | |
“And I should so like to thank Uncle once for all his kindness to me | |
and Borís. He is his godson,” she added, her tone suggesting that | |
this fact ought to give Prince Vasíli much satisfaction. | |
Prince Vasíli became thoughtful and frowned. Anna Mikháylovna saw that | |
he was afraid of finding in her a rival for Count Bezúkhov’s fortune, | |
and hastened to reassure him. | |
“If it were not for my sincere affection and devotion to Uncle,” | |
said she, uttering the word with peculiar assurance and unconcern, “I | |
know his character: noble, upright ... but you see he has no one with | |
him except the young princesses.... They are still young....” She bent | |
her head and continued in a whisper: “Has he performed his final duty, | |
Prince? How priceless are those last moments! It can make things no | |
worse, and it is absolutely necessary to prepare him if he is so ill. | |
We women, Prince,” and she smiled tenderly, “always know how to say | |
these things. I absolutely must see him, however painful it may be for | |
me. I am used to suffering.” | |
Evidently the prince understood her, and also understood, as he had done | |
at Anna Pávlovna’s, that it would be difficult to get rid of Anna | |
Mikháylovna. | |
“Would not such a meeting be too trying for him, dear Anna | |
Mikháylovna?” said he. “Let us wait until evening. The doctors are | |
expecting a crisis.” | |
“But one cannot delay, Prince, at such a moment! Consider that the | |
welfare of his soul is at stake. Ah, it is awful: the duties of a | |
Christian...” | |
A door of one of the inner rooms opened and one of the princesses, the | |
count’s niece, entered with a cold, stern face. The length of her | |
body was strikingly out of proportion to her short legs. Prince Vasíli | |
turned to her. | |
“Well, how is he?” | |
“Still the same; but what can you expect, this noise...” said the | |
princess, looking at Anna Mikháylovna as at a stranger. | |
“Ah, my dear, I hardly knew you,” said Anna Mikháylovna with a | |
happy smile, ambling lightly up to the count’s niece. “I have come, | |
and am at your service to help you nurse my uncle. I imagine what you | |
have gone through,” and she sympathetically turned up her eyes. | |
The princess gave no reply and did not even smile, but left the room as | |
Anna Mikháylovna took off her gloves and, occupying the position she | |
had conquered, settled down in an armchair, inviting Prince Vasíli to | |
take a seat beside her. | |
“Borís,” she said to her son with a smile, “I shall go in to see | |
the count, my uncle; but you, my dear, had better go to Pierre meanwhile | |
and don’t forget to give him the Rostóvs’ invitation. They ask him | |
to dinner. I suppose he won’t go?” she continued, turning to the | |
prince. | |
“On the contrary,” replied the prince, who had plainly become | |
depressed, “I shall be only too glad if you relieve me of that young | |
man.... Here he is, and the count has not once asked for him.” | |
He shrugged his shoulders. A footman conducted Borís down one flight of | |
stairs and up another, to Pierre’s rooms. | |
CHAPTER XVI | |
Pierre, after all, had not managed to choose a career for himself in | |
Petersburg, and had been expelled from there for riotous conduct and | |
sent to Moscow. The story told about him at Count Rostóv’s was true. | |
Pierre had taken part in tying a policeman to a bear. He had now been | |
for some days in Moscow and was staying as usual at his father’s | |
house. Though he expected that the story of his escapade would be | |
already known in Moscow and that the ladies about his father—who were | |
never favorably disposed toward him—would have used it to turn the | |
count against him, he nevertheless on the day of his arrival went to | |
his father’s part of the house. Entering the drawing room, where the | |
princesses spent most of their time, he greeted the ladies, two of whom | |
were sitting at embroidery frames while a third read aloud. It was the | |
eldest who was reading—the one who had met Anna Mikháylovna. The | |
two younger ones were embroidering: both were rosy and pretty and they | |
differed only in that one had a little mole on her lip which made her | |
much prettier. Pierre was received as if he were a corpse or a leper. | |
The eldest princess paused in her reading and silently stared at him | |
with frightened eyes; the second assumed precisely the same expression; | |
while the youngest, the one with the mole, who was of a cheerful and | |
lively disposition, bent over her frame to hide a smile probably evoked | |
by the amusing scene she foresaw. She drew her wool down through the | |
canvas and, scarcely able to refrain from laughing, stooped as if trying | |
to make out the pattern. | |
“How do you do, cousin?” said Pierre. “You don’t recognize | |
me?” | |
“I recognize you only too well, too well.” | |
“How is the count? Can I see him?” asked Pierre, awkwardly as usual, | |
but unabashed. | |
“The count is suffering physically and mentally, and apparently you | |
have done your best to increase his mental sufferings.” | |
“Can I see the count?” Pierre again asked. | |
“Hm.... If you wish to kill him, to kill him outright, you can see | |
him... Olga, go and see whether Uncle’s beef tea is ready—it is | |
almost time,” she added, giving Pierre to understand that they were | |
busy, and busy making his father comfortable, while evidently he, | |
Pierre, was only busy causing him annoyance. | |
Olga went out. Pierre stood looking at the sisters; then he bowed and | |
said: “Then I will go to my rooms. You will let me know when I can see | |
him.” | |
And he left the room, followed by the low but ringing laughter of the | |
sister with the mole. | |
Next day Prince Vasíli had arrived and settled in the count’s house. | |
He sent for Pierre and said to him: “My dear fellow, if you are going | |
to behave here as you did in Petersburg, you will end very badly; that | |
is all I have to say to you. The count is very, very ill, and you must | |
not see him at all.” | |
Since then Pierre had not been disturbed and had spent the whole time in | |
his rooms upstairs. | |
When Borís appeared at his door Pierre was pacing up and down his room, | |
stopping occasionally at a corner to make menacing gestures at the wall, | |
as if running a sword through an invisible foe, and glaring savagely | |
over his spectacles, and then again resuming his walk, muttering | |
indistinct words, shrugging his shoulders and gesticulating. | |
“England is done for,” said he, scowling and pointing his finger | |
at someone unseen. “Mr. Pitt, as a traitor to the nation and to the | |
rights of man, is sentenced to...” But before Pierre—who at that | |
moment imagined himself to be Napoleon in person and to have just | |
effected the dangerous crossing of the Straits of Dover and captured | |
London—could pronounce Pitt’s sentence, he saw a well-built and | |
handsome young officer entering his room. Pierre paused. He had left | |
Moscow when Borís was a boy of fourteen, and had quite forgotten him, | |
but in his usual impulsive and hearty way he took Borís by the hand | |
with a friendly smile. | |
“Do you remember me?” asked Borís quietly with a pleasant smile. | |
“I have come with my mother to see the count, but it seems he is not | |
well.” | |
“Yes, it seems he is ill. People are always disturbing him,” | |
answered Pierre, trying to remember who this young man was. | |
Borís felt that Pierre did not recognize him but did not consider | |
it necessary to introduce himself, and without experiencing the least | |
embarrassment looked Pierre straight in the face. | |
“Count Rostóv asks you to come to dinner today,” said he, after a | |
considerable pause which made Pierre feel uncomfortable. | |
“Ah, Count Rostóv!” exclaimed Pierre joyfully. “Then you are his | |
son, Ilyá? Only fancy, I didn’t know you at first. Do you remember | |
how we went to the Sparrow Hills with Madame Jacquot?... It’s such an | |
age...” | |
“You are mistaken,” said Borís deliberately, with a bold and | |
slightly sarcastic smile. “I am Borís, son of Princess Anna | |
Mikháylovna Drubetskáya. Rostóv, the father, is Ilyá, and his son is | |
Nicholas. I never knew any Madame Jacquot.” | |
Pierre shook his head and arms as if attacked by mosquitoes or bees. | |
“Oh dear, what am I thinking about? I’ve mixed everything up. One | |
has so many relatives in Moscow! So you are Borís? Of course. Well, now | |
we know where we are. And what do you think of the Boulogne expedition? | |
The English will come off badly, you know, if Napoleon gets across the | |
Channel. I think the expedition is quite feasible. If only Villeneuve | |
doesn’t make a mess of things!” | |
Borís knew nothing about the Boulogne expedition; he did not read the | |
papers and it was the first time he had heard Villeneuve’s name. | |
“We here in Moscow are more occupied with dinner parties and scandal | |
than with politics,” said he in his quiet ironical tone. “I know | |
nothing about it and have not thought about it. Moscow is chiefly busy | |
with gossip,” he continued. “Just now they are talking about you and | |
your father.” | |
Pierre smiled in his good-natured way as if afraid for his companion’s | |
sake that the latter might say something he would afterwards regret. | |
But Borís spoke distinctly, clearly, and dryly, looking straight into | |
Pierre’s eyes. | |
“Moscow has nothing else to do but gossip,” Borís went on. | |
“Everybody is wondering to whom the count will leave his fortune, | |
though he may perhaps outlive us all, as I sincerely hope he will...” | |
“Yes, it is all very horrid,” interrupted Pierre, “very horrid.” | |
Pierre was still afraid that this officer might inadvertently say | |
something disconcerting to himself. | |
“And it must seem to you,” said Borís flushing slightly, but not | |
changing his tone or attitude, “it must seem to you that everyone is | |
trying to get something out of the rich man?” | |
“So it does,” thought Pierre. | |
“But I just wish to say, to avoid misunderstandings, that you are | |
quite mistaken if you reckon me or my mother among such people. We are | |
very poor, but for my own part at any rate, for the very reason that | |
your father is rich, I don’t regard myself as a relation of his, and | |
neither I nor my mother would ever ask or take anything from him.” | |
For a long time Pierre could not understand, but when he did, he jumped | |
up from the sofa, seized Borís under the elbow in his quick, clumsy | |
way, and, blushing far more than Borís, began to speak with a feeling | |
of mingled shame and vexation. | |
“Well, this is strange! Do you suppose I... who could think?... I know | |
very well...” | |
But Borís again interrupted him. | |
“I am glad I have spoken out fully. Perhaps you did not like it? You | |
must excuse me,” said he, putting Pierre at ease instead of being put | |
at ease by him, “but I hope I have not offended you. I always make it | |
a rule to speak out... Well, what answer am I to take? Will you come to | |
dinner at the Rostóvs’?” | |
And Borís, having apparently relieved himself of an onerous duty and | |
extricated himself from an awkward situation and placed another in it, | |
became quite pleasant again. | |
“No, but I say,” said Pierre, calming down, “you are a wonderful | |
fellow! What you have just said is good, very good. Of course you | |
don’t know me. We have not met for such a long time... not since we | |
were children. You might think that I... I understand, quite understand. | |
I could not have done it myself, I should not have had the courage, but | |
it’s splendid. I am very glad to have made your acquaintance. It’s | |
queer,” he added after a pause, “that you should have suspected | |
me!” He began to laugh. “Well, what of it! I hope we’ll get better | |
acquainted,” and he pressed Borís’ hand. “Do you know, I have not | |
once been in to see the count. He has not sent for me.... I am sorry for | |
him as a man, but what can one do?” | |
“And so you think Napoleon will manage to get an army across?” asked | |
Borís with a smile. | |
Pierre saw that Borís wished to change the subject, and being of the | |
same mind he began explaining the advantages and disadvantages of the | |
Boulogne expedition. | |
A footman came in to summon Borís—the princess was going. Pierre, in | |
order to make Borís’ better acquaintance, promised to come to dinner, | |
and warmly pressing his hand looked affectionately over his spectacles | |
into Borís’ eyes. After he had gone Pierre continued pacing up and | |
down the room for a long time, no longer piercing an imaginary foe with | |
his imaginary sword, but smiling at the remembrance of that pleasant, | |
intelligent, and resolute young man. | |
As often happens in early youth, especially to one who leads a lonely | |
life, he felt an unaccountable tenderness for this young man and made up | |
his mind that they would be friends. | |
Prince Vasíli saw the princess off. She held a handkerchief to her eyes | |
and her face was tearful. | |
“It is dreadful, dreadful!” she was saying, “but cost me what it | |
may I shall do my duty. I will come and spend the night. He must not be | |
left like this. Every moment is precious. I can’t think why his nieces | |
put it off. Perhaps God will help me to find a way to prepare him!... | |
Adieu, Prince! May God support you...” | |
“Adieu, ma bonne,” answered Prince Vasíli turning away from her. | |
“Oh, he is in a dreadful state,” said the mother to her son when | |
they were in the carriage. “He hardly recognizes anybody.” | |
“I don’t understand, Mamma—what is his attitude to Pierre?” | |
asked the son. | |
“The will will show that, my dear; our fate also depends on it.” | |
“But why do you expect that he will leave us anything?” | |
“Ah, my dear! He is so rich, and we are so poor!” | |
“Well, that is hardly a sufficient reason, Mamma...” | |
“Oh, Heaven! How ill he is!” exclaimed the mother. | |
CHAPTER XVII | |
After Anna Mikháylovna had driven off with her son to visit Count Cyril | |
Vladímirovich Bezúkhov, Countess Rostóva sat for a long time all | |
alone applying her handkerchief to her eyes. At last she rang. | |
“What is the matter with you, my dear?” she said crossly to the maid | |
who kept her waiting some minutes. “Don’t you wish to serve me? Then | |
I’ll find you another place.” | |
The countess was upset by her friend’s sorrow and humiliating poverty, | |
and was therefore out of sorts, a state of mind which with her always | |
found expression in calling her maid “my dear” and speaking to her | |
with exaggerated politeness. | |
“I am very sorry, ma’am,” answered the maid. | |
“Ask the count to come to me.” | |
The count came waddling in to see his wife with a rather guilty look as | |
usual. | |
“Well, little countess? What a sauté of game au madère we are to | |
have, my dear! I tasted it. The thousand rubles I paid for Tarás were | |
not ill-spent. He is worth it!” | |
He sat down by his wife, his elbows on his knees and his hands ruffling | |
his gray hair. | |
“What are your commands, little countess?” | |
“You see, my dear... What’s that mess?” she said, pointing to his | |
waistcoat. “It’s the sauté, most likely,” she added with a smile. | |
“Well, you see, Count, I want some money.” | |
Her face became sad. | |
“Oh, little countess!” ... and the count began bustling to get out | |
his pocketbook. | |
“I want a great deal, Count! I want five hundred rubles,” and taking | |
out her cambric handkerchief she began wiping her husband’s waistcoat. | |
“Yes, immediately, immediately! Hey, who’s there?” he called out | |
in a tone only used by persons who are certain that those they call will | |
rush to obey the summons. “Send Dmítri to me!” | |
Dmítri, a man of good family who had been brought up in the count’s | |
house and now managed all his affairs, stepped softly into the room. | |
“This is what I want, my dear fellow,” said the count to the | |
deferential young man who had entered. “Bring me...” he reflected | |
a moment, “yes, bring me seven hundred rubles, yes! But mind, don’t | |
bring me such tattered and dirty notes as last time, but nice clean ones | |
for the countess.” | |
“Yes, Dmítri, clean ones, please,” said the countess, sighing | |
deeply. | |
“When would you like them, your excellency?” asked Dmítri. “Allow | |
me to inform you... 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. “I was forgetting... Do you wish it | |
brought at once?” | |
“Yes, yes; just so! Bring it. Give it to the countess.” | |
“What a treasure that Dmítri is,” added the count with a smile when | |
the young man had departed. “There is never any ‘impossible’ with | |
him. That’s a thing I hate! Everything is possible.” | |
“Ah, money, Count, money! How much sorrow it causes in the world,” | |
said the countess. “But I am in great need of this sum.” | |
“You, my little countess, are a notorious spendthrift,” said the | |
count, and having kissed his wife’s hand he went back to his study. | |
When Anna Mikháylovna returned from Count Bezúkhov’s the money, all | |
in clean notes, was lying ready under a handkerchief on the countess’ | |
little table, and Anna Mikháylovna noticed that something was agitating | |
her. | |
“Well, my dear?” asked the countess. | |
“Oh, what a terrible state he is in! One would not know him, he is so | |
ill! I was only there a few moments and hardly said a word...” | |
“Annette, for heaven’s sake don’t refuse me,” the countess | |
began, with a blush that looked very strange on her thin, dignified, | |
elderly face, and she took the money from under the handkerchief. | |
Anna Mikháylovna instantly guessed her intention and stooped to be | |
ready to embrace the countess at the appropriate moment. | |
“This is for Borís from me, for his outfit.” | |
Anna Mikháylovna was already embracing her and weeping. The countess | |
wept too. They wept because they were friends, and because they were | |
kindhearted, and because they—friends from childhood—had to think | |
about such a base thing as money, and because their youth was over.... | |
But those tears were pleasant to them both. | |
CHAPTER XVIII | |
Countess Rostóva, with her daughters and a large number of guests, was | |
already seated in the drawing room. The count took the gentlemen into | |
his study and showed them his choice collection of Turkish pipes. From | |
time to time he went out to ask: “Hasn’t she come yet?” They | |
were expecting Márya Dmítrievna Akhrosímova, known in society as le | |
terrible dragon, a lady distinguished not for wealth or rank, but for | |
common sense and frank plainness of speech. Márya Dmítrievna was known | |
to the Imperial family as well as to all Moscow and Petersburg, and both | |
cities wondered at her, laughed privately at her rudenesses, and told | |
good stories about her, while none the less all without exception | |
respected and feared her. | |
In the count’s room, which was full of tobacco smoke, they talked | |
of the war that had been announced in a manifesto, and about the | |
recruiting. None of them had yet seen the manifesto, but they all knew | |
it had appeared. The count sat on the sofa between two guests who were | |
smoking and talking. He neither smoked nor talked, but bending his head | |
first to one side and then to the other watched the smokers with evident | |
pleasure and listened to the conversation of his two neighbors, whom he | |
egged on against each other. | |
One of them was a sallow, clean-shaven civilian with a thin and wrinkled | |
face, already growing old, though he was dressed like a most fashionable | |
young man. He sat with his legs up on the sofa as if quite at home and, | |
having stuck an amber mouthpiece far into his mouth, was inhaling the | |
smoke spasmodically and screwing up his eyes. This was an old bachelor, | |
Shinshín, a cousin of the countess’, a man with “a sharp tongue” | |
as they said in Moscow society. He seemed to be condescending to | |
his companion. The latter, a fresh, rosy officer of the Guards, | |
irreproachably washed, brushed, and buttoned, held his pipe in the | |
middle of his mouth and with red lips gently inhaled the smoke, letting | |
it escape from his handsome mouth in rings. This was Lieutenant Berg, an | |
officer in the Semënov regiment with whom Borís was to travel to join | |
the army, and about whom Natásha had teased her elder sister Véra, | |
speaking of Berg as her “intended.” The count sat between them and | |
listened attentively. His favorite occupation when not playing boston, a | |
card game he was very fond of, was that of listener, especially when he | |
succeeded in setting two loquacious talkers at one another. | |
“Well, then, old chap, mon très honorable Alphonse Kárlovich,” | |
said Shinshín, laughing ironically and mixing the most ordinary Russian | |
expressions with the choicest French phrases—which was a peculiarity | |
of his speech. “Vous comptez vous faire des rentes sur l’état; * | |
you want to make something out of your company?” | |
* You expect to make an income out of the government. | |
“No, Peter Nikoláevich; I only want to show that in the cavalry | |
the advantages are far less than in the infantry. Just consider my own | |
position now, Peter Nikoláevich...” | |
Berg always spoke quietly, politely, and with great precision. His | |
conversation always related entirely to himself; he would remain calm | |
and silent when the talk related to any topic that had no direct bearing | |
on himself. He could remain silent for hours without being at all put | |
out of countenance himself or making others uncomfortable, but as | |
soon as the conversation concerned himself he would begin to talk | |
circumstantially and with evident satisfaction. | |
“Consider my position, Peter Nikoláevich. Were I in the cavalry I | |
should get not more than two hundred rubles every four months, even | |
with the rank of lieutenant; but as it is I receive two hundred and | |
thirty,” said he, looking at Shinshín and the count with a joyful, | |
pleasant smile, as if it were obvious to him that his success must | |
always be the chief desire of everyone else. | |
“Besides that, Peter Nikoláevich, by exchanging into the Guards | |
I shall be in a more prominent position,” continued Berg, “and | |
vacancies occur much more frequently in the Foot Guards. Then just think | |
what can be done with two hundred and thirty rubles! I even manage to | |
put a little aside and to send something to my father,” he went on, | |
emitting a smoke ring. | |
“La balance y est... * A German knows how to skin a flint, as the | |
proverb says,” remarked Shinshín, moving his pipe to the other side | |
of his mouth and winking at the count. | |
* So that squares matters. | |
The count burst out laughing. The other guests seeing that Shinshín | |
was talking came up to listen. Berg, oblivious of irony or indifference, | |
continued to explain how by exchanging into the Guards he had already | |
gained a step on his old comrades of the Cadet Corps; how in wartime | |
the company commander might get killed and he, as senior in the company, | |
might easily succeed to the post; how popular he was with everyone in | |
the regiment, and how satisfied his father was with him. Berg evidently | |
enjoyed narrating all this, and did not seem to suspect that others, | |
too, might have their own interests. But all he said was so prettily | |
sedate, and the naïveté of his youthful egotism was so obvious, that | |
he disarmed his hearers. | |
“Well, my boy, you’ll get along wherever you go—foot or | |
horse—that I’ll warrant,” said Shinshín, patting him on the | |
shoulder and taking his feet off the sofa. | |
Berg smiled joyously. The count, followed by his guests, went into the | |
drawing room. | |
It was just the moment before a big dinner when the assembled guests, | |
expecting the summons to zakúska, * avoid engaging in any long | |
conversation but think it necessary to move about and talk, in order | |
to show that they are not at all impatient for their food. The host and | |
hostess look toward the door, and now and then glance at one another, | |
and the visitors try to guess from these glances who, or what, they are | |
waiting for—some important relation who has not yet arrived, or a dish | |
that is not yet ready. | |
* Hors d’oeuvres. | |
Pierre had come just at dinnertime and was sitting awkwardly in the | |
middle of the drawing room on the first chair he had come across, | |
blocking the way for everyone. The countess tried to make him talk, | |
but he went on naïvely looking around through his spectacles as if in | |
search of somebody and answered all her questions in monosyllables. He | |
was in the way and was the only one who did not notice the fact. Most of | |
the guests, knowing of the affair with the bear, looked with curiosity | |
at this big, stout, quiet man, wondering how such a clumsy, modest | |
fellow could have played such a prank on a policeman. | |
“You have only lately arrived?” the countess asked him. | |
“Oui, madame,” replied he, looking around him. | |
“You have not yet seen my husband?” | |
“Non, madame.” He smiled quite inappropriately. | |
“You have been in Paris recently, I believe? I suppose it’s very | |
interesting.” | |
“Very interesting.” | |
The countess exchanged glances with Anna Mikháylovna. The latter | |
understood that she was being asked to entertain this young man, and | |
sitting down beside him she began to speak about his father; but he | |
answered her, as he had the countess, only in monosyllables. The other | |
guests were all conversing with one another. “The Razumóvskis... It | |
was charming... You are very kind... Countess Apráksina...” was heard | |
on all sides. The countess rose and went into the ballroom. | |
“Márya Dmítrievna?” came her voice from there. | |
“Herself,” came the answer in a rough voice, and Márya Dmítrievna | |
entered the room. | |
All the unmarried ladies and even the married ones except the very | |
oldest rose. Márya Dmítrievna paused at the door. Tall and stout, | |
holding high her fifty-year-old head with its gray curls, she stood | |
surveying the guests, and leisurely arranged her wide sleeves as if | |
rolling them up. Márya Dmítrievna always spoke in Russian. | |
“Health and happiness to her whose name day we are keeping and to her | |
children,” she said, in her loud, full-toned voice which drowned all | |
others. “Well, you old sinner,” she went on, turning to the count | |
who was kissing her hand, “you’re feeling dull in Moscow, I daresay? | |
Nowhere to hunt with your dogs? But what is to be done, old man? Just | |
see how these nestlings are growing up,” and she pointed to the girls. | |
“You must look for husbands for them whether you like it or not....” | |
“Well,” said she, “how’s my Cossack?” (Márya Dmítrievna | |
always called Natásha a Cossack) and she stroked the child’s arm as | |
she came up fearless and gay to kiss her hand. “I know she’s a scamp | |
of a girl, but I like her.” | |
She took a pair of pear-shaped ruby earrings from her huge reticule and, | |
having given them to the rosy Natásha, who beamed with the pleasure | |
of her saint’s-day fete, turned away at once and addressed herself to | |
Pierre. | |
“Eh, eh, friend! Come here a bit,” said she, assuming a soft high | |
tone of voice. “Come here, my friend...” and she ominously tucked | |
up her sleeves still higher. Pierre approached, looking at her in a | |
childlike way through his spectacles. | |
“Come nearer, come nearer, friend! I used to be the only one to tell | |
your father the truth when he was in favor, and in your case it’s my | |
evident duty.” She paused. All were silent, expectant of what was to | |
follow, for this was clearly only a prelude. | |
“A fine lad! My word! A fine lad!... His father lies on his deathbed | |
and he amuses himself setting a policeman astride a bear! For shame, | |
sir, for shame! It would be better if you went to the war.” | |
She turned away and gave her hand to the count, who could hardly keep | |
from laughing. | |
“Well, I suppose it is time we were at table?” said Márya | |
Dmítrievna. | |
The count went in first with Márya Dmítrievna, the countess followed | |
on the arm of a colonel of hussars, a man of importance to them because | |
Nicholas was to go with him to the regiment; then came Anna Mikháylovna | |
with Shinshín. Berg gave his arm to Véra. The smiling Julie Karágina | |
went in with Nicholas. After them other couples followed, filling the | |
whole dining hall, and last of all the children, tutors, and governesses | |
followed singly. The footmen began moving about, chairs scraped, the | |
band struck up in the gallery, and the guests settled down in their | |
places. Then the strains of the count’s household band were replaced | |
by the clatter of knives and forks, the voices of visitors, and the | |
soft steps of the footmen. At one end of the table sat the countess with | |
Márya Dmítrievna on her right and Anna Mikháylovna on her left, the | |
other lady visitors were farther down. At the other end sat the count, | |
with the hussar colonel on his left and Shinshín and the other male | |
visitors on his right. Midway down the long table on one side sat the | |
grown-up young people: Véra beside Berg, and Pierre beside Borís; and | |
on the other side, the children, tutors, and governesses. 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. The countess in turn, | |
without omitting her duties as hostess, threw significant glances from | |
behind the pineapples at her husband whose face and bald head seemed | |
by their redness to contrast more than usual with his gray hair. 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. Berg | |
with tender smiles was saying to Véra that love is not an earthly but | |
a heavenly feeling. Borís was telling his new friend Pierre who the | |
guests were and exchanging glances with Natásha, who was sitting | |
opposite. Pierre spoke little but examined the new faces, and ate a | |
great deal. Of the two soups he chose turtle with savory patties and | |
went on to the game without omitting a single dish or one of the wines. | |
These latter the butler thrust mysteriously forward, wrapped in a | |
napkin, from behind the next man’s shoulders and whispered: “Dry | |
Madeira”... “Hungarian”... or “Rhine wine” as the case might | |
be. Of the four crystal glasses engraved with the count’s monogram | |
that stood before his plate, Pierre held out one at random and drank | |
with enjoyment, gazing with ever-increasing amiability at the other | |
guests. Natásha, who sat opposite, was looking at Borís as girls of | |
thirteen look at the boy they are in love with and have just kissed for | |
the first time. Sometimes that same look fell on Pierre, and that funny | |
lively little girl’s look made him inclined to laugh without knowing | |
why. | |
Nicholas sat at some distance from Sónya, beside Julie Karágina, to | |
whom he was again talking with the same involuntary smile. Sónya wore | |
a company smile but was evidently tormented by jealousy; now she turned | |
pale, now blushed and strained every nerve to overhear what Nicholas | |
and Julie were saying to one another. The governess kept looking round | |
uneasily as if preparing to resent any slight that might be put upon the | |
children. The German tutor was trying to remember all the dishes, wines, | |
and kinds of dessert, in order to send a full description of the dinner | |
to his people in Germany; and he felt greatly offended when the butler | |
with a bottle wrapped in a napkin passed him by. He frowned, trying to | |
appear as if he did not want any of that wine, but was mortified because | |
no one would understand that it was not to quench his thirst or from | |
greediness that he wanted it, but simply from a conscientious desire for | |
knowledge. | |
CHAPTER XIX | |
At the men’s end of the table the talk grew more and more animated. | |
The colonel told them that the declaration of war had already appeared | |
in Petersburg and that a copy, which he had himself seen, had that day | |
been forwarded by courier to the commander in chief. | |
“And why the deuce are we going to fight Bonaparte?” remarked | |
Shinshín. “He has stopped Austria’s cackle and I fear it will be | |
our turn next.” | |
The colonel was a stout, tall, plethoric German, evidently devoted to | |
the service and patriotically Russian. He resented Shinshín’s remark. | |
“It is for the reasson, my goot sir,” said he, speaking with a | |
German accent, “for the reasson zat ze Emperor knows zat. He | |
declares in ze manifessto zat he cannot fiew wiz indifference ze danger | |
vreatening Russia and zat ze safety and dignity of ze Empire as vell | |
as ze sanctity of its alliances...” he spoke this last word with | |
particular emphasis as if in it lay the gist of the matter. | |
Then with the unerring official memory that characterized him he | |
repeated from the opening words of the manifesto: | |
... and the wish, which constitutes the Emperor’s sole and absolute | |
aim—to establish peace in Europe on firm foundations—has now decided | |
him to despatch part of the army abroad and to create a new condition | |
for the attainment of that purpose. | |
“Zat, my dear sir, is vy...” he concluded, drinking a tumbler of | |
wine with dignity and looking to the count for approval. | |
“Connaissez-vous le Proverbe:* ‘Jerome, Jerome, do not roam, but | |
turn spindles at home!’?” said Shinshín, puckering his brows and | |
smiling. “Cela nous convient à merveille.*(2) Suvórov now—he knew | |
what he was about; yet they beat him à plate couture,*(3) and where | |
are we to find Suvórovs now? Je vous demande un peu,” *(4) said he, | |
continually changing from French to Russian. | |
*Do you know the proverb? | |
*(2) That suits us down to the ground. | |
*(3) Hollow. | |
*(4) I just ask you that. | |
“Ve must vight to the last tr-r-op of our plood!” said the colonel, | |
thumping the table; “and ve must tie for our Emperor, and zen all vill | |
pe vell. And ve must discuss it as little as po-o-ossible”... he dwelt | |
particularly on the word possible... “as po-o-ossible,” he ended, | |
again turning to the count. “Zat is how ve old hussars look at it, and | |
zere’s an end of it! And how do you, a young man and a young hussar, | |
how do you judge of it?” he added, addressing Nicholas, who when he | |
heard that the war was being discussed had turned from his partner with | |
eyes and ears intent on the colonel. | |
“I am quite of your opinion,” replied Nicholas, flaming up, turning | |
his plate round and moving his wineglasses about with as much decision | |
and desperation as though he were at that moment facing some great | |
danger. “I am convinced that we Russians must die or conquer,” he | |
concluded, conscious—as were others—after the words were uttered | |
that his remarks were too enthusiastic and emphatic for the occasion and | |
were therefore awkward. | |
“What you said just now was splendid!” said his partner Julie. | |
Sónya trembled all over and blushed to her ears and behind them and | |
down to her neck and shoulders while Nicholas was speaking. | |
Pierre listened to the colonel’s speech and nodded approvingly. | |
“That’s fine,” said he. | |
“The young man’s a real hussar!” shouted the colonel, again | |
thumping the table. | |
“What are you making such a noise about over there?” Márya | |
Dmítrievna’s deep voice suddenly inquired from the other end of the | |
table. “What are you thumping the table for?” she demanded of the | |
hussar, “and why are you exciting yourself? Do you think the French | |
are here?” | |
“I am speaking ze truce,” replied the hussar with a smile. | |
“It’s all about the war,” the count shouted down the table. “You | |
know my son’s going, Márya Dmítrievna? My son is going.” | |
“I have four sons in the army but still I don’t fret. It is all | |
in God’s hands. You may die in your bed or God may spare you in a | |
battle,” replied Márya Dmítrievna’s deep voice, which easily | |
carried the whole length of the table. | |
“That’s true!” | |
Once more the conversations concentrated, the ladies’ at the one end | |
and the men’s at the other. | |
“You won’t ask,” Natásha’s little brother was saying; “I know | |
you won’t ask!” | |
“I will,” replied Natásha. | |
Her face suddenly flushed with reckless and joyous resolution. She half | |
rose, by a glance inviting Pierre, who sat opposite, to listen to what | |
was coming, and turning to her mother: | |
“Mamma!” rang out the clear contralto notes of her childish voice, | |
audible the whole length of the table. | |
“What is it?” asked the countess, startled; but seeing by her | |
daughter’s face that it was only mischief, she shook a finger at her | |
sternly with a threatening and forbidding movement of her head. | |
The conversation was hushed. | |
“Mamma! What sweets are we going to have?” and Natásha’s voice | |
sounded still more firm and resolute. | |
The countess tried to frown, but could not. Márya Dmítrievna shook her | |
fat finger. | |
“Cossack!” she said threateningly. | |
Most of the guests, uncertain how to regard this sally, looked at the | |
elders. | |
“You had better take care!” said the countess. | |
“Mamma! What sweets are we going to have?” Natásha again cried | |
boldly, with saucy gaiety, confident that her prank would be taken in | |
good part. | |
Sónya and fat little Pétya doubled up with laughter. | |
“You see! I have asked,” whispered Natásha to her little brother | |
and to Pierre, glancing at him again. | |
“Ice pudding, but you won’t get any,” said Márya Dmítrievna. | |
Natásha saw there was nothing to be afraid of and so she braved even | |
Márya Dmítrievna. | |
“Márya Dmítrievna! What kind of ice pudding? I don’t like ice | |
cream.” | |
“Carrot ices.” | |
“No! What kind, Márya Dmítrievna? What kind?” she almost screamed; | |
“I want to know!” | |
Márya Dmítrievna and the countess burst out laughing, and all the | |
guests joined in. Everyone laughed, not at Márya Dmítrievna’s answer | |
but at the incredible boldness and smartness of this little girl who had | |
dared to treat Márya Dmítrievna in this fashion. | |
Natásha only desisted when she had been told that there would be | |
pineapple ice. Before the ices, champagne was served round. 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. Again the footmen rushed about, chairs scraped, and | |
in the same order in which they had entered but with redder faces, the | |
guests returned to the drawing room and to the count’s study. | |
CHAPTER XX | |
The card tables were drawn out, sets made up for boston, and the | |
count’s visitors settled themselves, some in the two drawing rooms, | |
some in the sitting room, some in the library. | |
The count, holding his cards fanwise, kept himself with difficulty from | |
dropping into his usual after-dinner nap, and laughed at everything. | |
The young people, at the countess’ instigation, gathered round the | |
clavichord and harp. Julie by general request played first. After she | |
had played a little air with variations on the harp, she joined the | |
other young ladies in begging Natásha and Nicholas, who were noted for | |
their musical talent, to sing something. Natásha, who was treated as | |
though she were grown up, was evidently very proud of this but at the | |
same time felt shy. | |
“What shall we sing?” she said. | |
“‘The Brook,’” suggested Nicholas. | |
“Well, then, let’s be quick. Borís, come here,” said Natásha. | |
“But where is Sónya?” | |
She looked round and seeing that her friend was not in the room ran to | |
look for her. | |
Running into Sónya’s room and not finding her there, Natásha ran to | |
the nursery, but Sónya was not there either. Natásha concluded that | |
she must be on the chest in the passage. The chest in the passage was | |
the place of mourning for the younger female generation in the Rostóv | |
household. And there in fact was Sónya lying face downward on Nurse’s | |
dirty feather bed on the top of the chest, crumpling her gauzy pink | |
dress under her, hiding her face with her slender fingers, and sobbing | |
so convulsively that her bare little shoulders shook. Natásha’s | |
face, which had been so radiantly happy all that saint’s day, suddenly | |
changed: her eyes became fixed, and then a shiver passed down her broad | |
neck and the corners of her mouth drooped. | |
“Sónya! What is it? What is the matter?... Oo... Oo... Oo...!” And | |
Natásha’s large mouth widened, making her look quite ugly, and she | |
began to wail like a baby without knowing why, except that Sónya was | |
crying. Sónya tried to lift her head to answer but could not, and | |
hid her face still deeper in the bed. Natásha wept, sitting on the | |
blue-striped feather bed and hugging her friend. With an effort Sónya | |
sat up and began wiping her eyes and explaining. | |
“Nicholas is going away in a week’s time, his... papers... have | |
come... he told me himself... but still I should not cry,” and she | |
showed a paper she held in her hand—with the verses Nicholas had | |
written, “still, I should not cry, but you can’t... no one can | |
understand... what a soul he has!” | |
And she began to cry again because he had such a noble soul. | |
“It’s all very well for you... I am not envious... I love you and | |
Borís also,” she went on, gaining a little strength; “he is nice... | |
there are no difficulties in your way.... But Nicholas is my cousin... | |
one would have to... the Metropolitan himself... and even then it | |
can’t be done. And besides, if she tells Mamma” (Sónya looked upon | |
the countess as her mother and called her so) “that I am spoiling | |
Nicholas’ career and am heartless and ungrateful, while truly... God | |
is my witness,” and she made the sign of the cross, “I love her so | |
much, and all of you, only Véra... And what for? What have I done | |
to her? I am so grateful to you that I would willingly sacrifice | |
everything, only I have nothing....” | |
Sónya could not continue, and again hid her face in her hands and in | |
the feather bed. Natásha began consoling her, but her face showed that | |
she understood all the gravity of her friend’s trouble. | |
“Sónya,” she suddenly exclaimed, as if she had guessed the true | |
reason of her friend’s sorrow, “I’m sure Véra has said something | |
to you since dinner? Hasn’t she?” | |
“Yes, these verses Nicholas wrote himself and I copied some others, | |
and she found them on my table and said she’d show them to Mamma, and | |
that I was ungrateful, and that Mamma would never allow him to marry | |
me, but that he’ll marry Julie. You see how he’s been with her all | |
day... Natásha, what have I done to deserve it?...” | |
And again she began to sob, more bitterly than before. Natásha lifted | |
her up, hugged her, and, smiling through her tears, began comforting | |
her. | |
“Sónya, don’t believe her, darling! Don’t believe her! Do you | |
remember how we and Nicholas, all three of us, talked in the sitting | |
room after supper? Why, we settled how everything was to be. I don’t | |
quite remember how, but don’t you remember that it could all be | |
arranged and how nice it all was? There’s Uncle Shinshín’s brother | |
has married his first cousin. And we are only second cousins, you know. | |
And Borís says it is quite possible. You know I have told him all about | |
it. And he is so clever and so good!” said Natásha. “Don’t | |
you cry, Sónya, dear love, darling Sónya!” and she kissed her and | |
laughed. “Véra’s spiteful; never mind her! And all will come right | |
and she won’t say anything to Mamma. Nicholas will tell her himself, | |
and he doesn’t care at all for Julie.” | |
Natásha kissed her on the hair. | |
Sónya sat up. The little kitten brightened, its eyes shone, and it | |
seemed ready to lift its tail, jump down on its soft paws, and begin | |
playing with the ball of worsted as a kitten should. | |
“Do you think so?... Really? Truly?” she said, quickly smoothing her | |
frock and hair. | |
“Really, truly!” answered Natásha, pushing in a crisp lock that had | |
strayed from under her friend’s plaits. | |
Both laughed. | |
“Well, let’s go and sing ‘The Brook.’” | |
“Come along!” | |
“Do you know, that fat Pierre who sat opposite me is so funny!” said | |
Natásha, stopping suddenly. “I feel so happy!” | |
And she set off at a run along the passage. | |
Sónya, shaking off some down which clung to her and tucking away the | |
verses in the bosom of her dress close to her bony little chest, ran | |
after Natásha down the passage into the sitting room with flushed face | |
and light, joyous steps. At the visitors’ request the young people | |
sang the quartette, “The Brook,” with which everyone was delighted. | |
Then Nicholas sang a song he had just learned: | |
At nighttime in the moon’s fair glow | |
How sweet, as fancies wander free, | |
To feel that in this world there’s one | |
Who still is thinking but of thee! | |
That while her fingers touch the harp | |
Wafting sweet music o’er the lea, | |
It is for thee thus swells her heart, | |
Sighing its message out to thee... | |
A day or two, then bliss unspoilt, | |
But oh! till then I cannot live!... | |
He had not finished the last verse before the young people began to | |
get ready to dance in the large hall, and the sound of the feet and the | |
coughing of the musicians were heard from the gallery. | |
Pierre was sitting in the drawing room where Shinshín had engaged him, | |
as a man recently returned from abroad, in a political conversation in | |
which several others joined but which bored Pierre. When the music began | |
Natásha came in and walking straight up to Pierre said, laughing and | |
blushing: | |
“Mamma told me to ask you to join the dancers.” | |
“I am afraid of mixing the figures,” Pierre replied; “but if you | |
will be my teacher...” And lowering his big arm he offered it to the | |
slender little girl. | |
While the couples were arranging themselves and the musicians tuning up, | |
Pierre sat down with his little partner. Natásha was perfectly happy; | |
she was dancing with a grown-up man, who had been abroad. She was | |
sitting in a conspicuous place and talking to him like a grown-up lady. | |
She had a fan in her hand that one of the ladies had given her to hold. | |
Assuming quite the pose of a society woman (heaven knows when and where | |
she had learned it) she talked with her partner, fanning herself and | |
smiling over the fan. | |
“Dear, dear! Just look at her!” exclaimed the countess as she | |
crossed the ballroom, pointing to Natásha. | |
Natásha blushed and laughed. | |
“Well, really, Mamma! Why should you? What is there to be surprised | |
at?” | |
In the midst of the third écossaise there was a clatter of chairs being | |
pushed back in the sitting room where the count and Márya Dmítrievna | |
had been playing cards with the majority of the more distinguished and | |
older visitors. They now, stretching themselves after sitting so long, | |
and replacing their purses and pocketbooks, entered the ballroom. First | |
came Márya Dmítrievna and the count, both with merry countenances. The | |
count, with playful ceremony somewhat in ballet style, offered his | |
bent arm to Márya Dmítrievna. He drew himself up, a smile of debonair | |
gallantry lit up his face and as soon as the last figure of the | |
écossaise was ended, he clapped his hands to the musicians and shouted | |
up to their gallery, addressing the first violin: | |
“Semën! Do you know the Daniel Cooper?” | |
This was the count’s favorite dance, which he had danced in his youth. | |
(Strictly speaking, Daniel Cooper was one figure of the anglaise.) | |
“Look at Papa!” shouted Natásha to the whole company, and quite | |
forgetting that she was dancing with a grown-up partner she bent her | |
curly head to her knees and made the whole room ring with her laughter. | |
And indeed everybody in the room looked with a smile of pleasure at the | |
jovial old gentleman, who standing beside his tall and stout partner, | |
Márya Dmítrievna, curved his arms, beat time, straightened his | |
shoulders, turned out his toes, tapped gently with his foot, and, by | |
a smile that broadened his round face more and more, prepared the | |
onlookers for what was to follow. As soon as the provocatively gay | |
strains of Daniel Cooper (somewhat resembling those of a merry peasant | |
dance) began to sound, all the doorways of the ballroom were suddenly | |
filled by the domestic serfs—the men on one side and the women on | |
the other—who with beaming faces had come to see their master making | |
merry. | |
“Just look at the master! A regular eagle he is!” loudly remarked | |
the nurse, as she stood in one of the doorways. | |
The count danced well and knew it. But his partner could not and did not | |
want to dance well. Her enormous figure stood erect, her powerful arms | |
hanging down (she had handed her reticule to the countess), and only her | |
stern but handsome face really joined in the dance. What was expressed | |
by the whole of the count’s plump figure, in Márya Dmítrievna found | |
expression only in her more and more beaming face and quivering nose. | |
But if the count, getting more and more into the swing of it, charmed | |
the spectators by the unexpectedness of his adroit maneuvers and | |
the agility with which he capered about on his light feet, Márya | |
Dmítrievna produced no less impression by slight exertions—the least | |
effort to move her shoulders or bend her arms when turning, or stamp | |
her foot—which everyone appreciated in view of her size and habitual | |
severity. The dance grew livelier and livelier. The other couples could | |
not attract a moment’s attention to their own evolutions and did not | |
even try to do so. All were watching the count and Márya Dmítrievna. | |
Natásha 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 Márya Dmítrievna, 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 Natásha. Both partners stood still, breathing heavily | |
and wiping their faces with their cambric handkerchiefs. | |
“That’s how we used to dance in our time, ma chère,” said the | |
count. | |
“That was a Daniel Cooper!” exclaimed Márya Dmítrievna, tucking up | |
her sleeves and puffing heavily. | |
CHAPTER XXI | |
While in the Rostóvs’ 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 Bezúkhov 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 count’s health, came himself | |
that evening to bid a last farewell to the celebrated grandee of | |
Catherine’s court, Count Bezúkhov. | |
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 | |
Vasíli, 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 Vasíli 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 man’s | |
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 | |
o’erpassed,” said an old priest to a lady who had taken a seat | |
beside him and was listening naïvely to his words. | |
“I wonder, is it not too late to administer unction?” asked the | |
lady, adding the priest’s 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 of cream of tartar,” | |
and he indicated with his delicate fingers what he meant by a pinch. | |
“Dere has neffer been a gase,” a German doctor was saying to an | |
aide-de-camp, “dat one liffs after de sird stroke.” | |
“And what a well-preserved man he was!” remarked the aide-de-camp. | |
“And who will inherit his wealth?” he added in a whisper. | |
“It von’t go begging,” replied the German with a smile. | |
Everyone again looked toward the door, which creaked as the second | |
princess went in with the drink she had prepared according to | |
Lorrain’s instructions. The German doctor went up to Lorrain. | |
“Do you think he can last till morning?” asked the German, | |
addressing Lorrain in French which he pronounced badly. | |
Lorrain, pursing up his lips, waved a severely negative finger before | |
his nose. | |
“Tonight, not later,” said he in a low voice, and he moved away | |
with a decorous smile of self-satisfaction at being able clearly to | |
understand and state the patient’s condition. | |
Meanwhile Prince Vasíli had opened the door into the princess’ room. | |
In this room it was almost dark; only two tiny lamps were burning before | |
the icons and there was a pleasant scent of flowers and burnt pastilles. | |
The room was crowded with small pieces of furniture, whatnots, | |
cupboards, and little tables. The quilt of a high, white feather bed was | |
just visible behind a screen. A small dog began to bark. | |
“Ah, is it you, cousin?” | |
She rose and smoothed her hair, which was as usual so extremely smooth | |
that it seemed to be made of one piece with her head and covered with | |
varnish. | |
“Has anything happened?” she asked. “I am so terrified.” | |
“No, there is no change. I only came to have a talk about business, | |
Catiche,” * muttered the prince, seating himself wearily on the chair | |
she had just vacated. “You have made the place warm, I must say,” he | |
remarked. “Well, sit down: let’s have a talk.” | |
*Catherine. | |
“I thought perhaps something had happened,” she said with her | |
unchanging stonily severe expression; and, sitting down opposite the | |
prince, she prepared to listen. | |
“I wished to get a nap, mon cousin, but I can’t.” | |
“Well, my dear?” said Prince Vasíli, taking her hand and bending it | |
downwards as was his habit. | |
It was plain that this “well?” referred to much that they both | |
understood without naming. | |
The princess, who had a straight, rigid body, abnormally long for her | |
legs, looked directly at Prince Vasíli with no sign of emotion in her | |
prominent gray eyes. Then she shook her head and glanced up at the icons | |
with a sigh. This might have been taken as an expression of sorrow | |
and devotion, or of weariness and hope of resting before long. Prince | |
Vasíli understood it as an expression of weariness. | |
“And I?” he said; “do you think it is easier for me? I am as worn | |
out as a post horse, but still I must have a talk with you, Catiche, a | |
very serious talk.” | |
Prince Vasíli said no more and his cheeks began to twitch nervously, | |
now on one side, now on the other, giving his face an unpleasant | |
expression which was never to be seen on it in a drawing room. His eyes | |
too seemed strange; at one moment they looked impudently sly and at the | |
next glanced round in alarm. | |
The princess, holding her little dog on her lap with her thin bony | |
hands, looked attentively into Prince Vasíli’s eyes evidently | |
resolved not to be the first to break silence, if she had to wait till | |
morning. | |
“Well, you see, my dear princess and cousin, Catherine Semënovna,” | |
continued Prince Vasíli, returning to his theme, apparently not | |
without an inner struggle; “at such a moment as this one must think | |
of everything. One must think of the future, of all of you... I love you | |
all, like children of my own, as you know.” | |
The princess continued to look at him without moving, and with the same | |
dull expression. | |
“And then of course my family has also to be considered,” Prince | |
Vasíli went on, testily pushing away a little table without looking at | |
her. “You know, Catiche, that we—you three sisters, Mámontov, and | |
my wife—are the count’s only direct heirs. I know, I know how hard | |
it is for you to talk or think of such matters. It is no easier for | |
me; but, my dear, I am getting on for sixty and must be prepared for | |
anything. Do you know I have sent for Pierre? The count,” pointing to | |
his portrait, “definitely demanded that he should be called.” | |
Prince Vasíli looked questioningly at the princess, but could not make | |
out whether she was considering what he had just said or whether she was | |
simply looking at him. | |
“There is one thing I constantly pray God to grant, mon cousin,” she | |
replied, “and it is that He would be merciful to him and would allow | |
his noble soul peacefully to leave this...” | |
“Yes, yes, of course,” interrupted Prince Vasíli impatiently, | |
rubbing his bald head and angrily pulling back toward him the little | |
table that he had pushed away. “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.” | |
“He has made wills enough!” quietly remarked the princess. “But he | |
cannot leave the estate to Pierre. Pierre is illegitimate.” | |
“But, my dear,” said Prince Vasíli suddenly, clutching the little | |
table and becoming more animated and talking more rapidly: “what if | |
a letter has been written to the Emperor in which the count asks for | |
Pierre’s legitimation? Do you understand that in consideration of the | |
count’s services, his request would be granted?...” | |
The princess smiled as people do who think they know more about the | |
subject under discussion than those they are talking with. | |
“I can tell you more,” continued Prince Vasíli, seizing her hand, | |
“that letter was written, though it was not sent, and the Emperor knew | |
of it. The only question is, has it been destroyed or not? If not, then | |
as soon as all is over,” and Prince Vasíli sighed to intimate what he | |
meant by the words all is over, “and the count’s papers are opened, | |
the will and letter will be delivered to the Emperor, and the petition | |
will certainly be granted. Pierre will get everything as the legitimate | |
son.” | |
“And our share?” asked the princess smiling ironically, as if | |
anything might happen, only not that. | |
“But, my poor Catiche, it is as clear as daylight! He will then be the | |
legal heir to everything and you won’t get anything. You must know, | |
my dear, whether the will and letter were written, and whether they have | |
been destroyed or not. And if they have somehow been overlooked, you | |
ought to know where they are, and must find them, because...” | |
“What next?” the princess interrupted, smiling sardonically and not | |
changing the expression of her eyes. “I am a woman, and you think we | |
are all stupid; but I know this: an illegitimate son cannot inherit... | |
un bâtard!”* she added, as if supposing that this translation of the | |
word would effectively prove to Prince Vasíli the invalidity of his | |
contention. | |
* A bastard. | |
“Well, really, Catiche! Can’t you understand! You are so | |
intelligent, how is it you don’t see that if the count has written a | |
letter to the Emperor begging him to recognize Pierre as legitimate, it | |
follows that Pierre will not be Pierre but will become Count Bezúkhov, | |
and will then inherit everything under the will? And if the will and | |
letter are not destroyed, then you will have nothing but the consolation | |
of having been dutiful et tout ce qui s’ensuit!* That’s certain.” | |
* And all that follows therefrom. | |
“I know the will was made, but I also know that it is invalid; | |
and you, mon cousin, seem to consider me a perfect fool,” said the | |
princess with the expression women assume when they suppose they are | |
saying something witty and stinging. | |
“My dear Princess Catherine Semënovna,” began Prince Vasíli | |
impatiently, “I came here not to wrangle with you, but to talk about | |
your interests as with a kinswoman, a good, kind, true relation. And I | |
tell you for the tenth time that if the letter to the Emperor and the | |
will in Pierre’s favor are among the count’s papers, then, my dear | |
girl, you and your sisters are not heiresses! If you don’t believe me, | |
then believe an expert. I have just been talking to Dmítri Onúfrich” | |
(the family solicitor) “and he says the same.” | |
At this a sudden change evidently took place in the princess’ ideas; | |
her thin lips grew white, though her eyes did not change, and her voice | |
when she began to speak passed through such transitions as she herself | |
evidently did not expect. | |
“That would be a fine thing!” said she. “I never wanted anything | |
and I don’t now.” | |
She pushed the little dog off her lap and smoothed her dress. | |
“And this is gratitude—this is recognition for those who have | |
sacrificed everything for his sake!” she cried. “It’s splendid! | |
Fine! I don’t want anything, Prince.” | |
“Yes, but you are not the only one. There are your sisters...” | |
replied Prince Vasíli. | |
But the princess did not listen to him. | |
“Yes, I knew it long ago but had forgotten. I knew that I could expect | |
nothing but meanness, deceit, envy, intrigue, and ingratitude—the | |
blackest ingratitude—in this house...” | |
“Do you or do you not know where that will is?” insisted Prince | |
Vasíli, his cheeks twitching more than ever. | |
“Yes, I was a fool! I still believed in people, loved them, and | |
sacrificed myself. But only the base, the vile succeed! I know who has | |
been intriguing!” | |
The princess wished to rise, but the prince held her by the hand. She | |
had the air of one who has suddenly lost faith in the whole human race. | |
She gave her companion an angry glance. | |
“There is still time, my dear. You must remember, Catiche, that it was | |
all done casually in a moment of anger, of illness, and was afterwards | |
forgotten. Our duty, my dear, is to rectify his mistake, to ease his | |
last moments by not letting him commit this injustice, and not to let | |
him die feeling that he is rendering unhappy those who...” | |
“Who sacrificed everything for him,” chimed in the princess, who | |
would again have risen had not the prince still held her fast, “though | |
he never could appreciate it. No, mon cousin,” she added with a sigh, | |
“I shall always remember that in this world one must expect no reward, | |
that in this world there is neither honor nor justice. In this world one | |
has to be cunning and cruel.” | |
“Now come, come! Be reasonable. I know your excellent heart.” | |
“No, I have a wicked heart.” | |
“I know your heart,” repeated the prince. “I value your friendship | |
and wish you to have as good an opinion of me. Don’t upset yourself, | |
and let us talk sensibly while there is still time, be it a day or be it | |
but an hour.... Tell me all you know about the will, and above all where | |
it is. You must know. We will take it at once and show it to the | |
count. He has, no doubt, forgotten it and will wish to destroy it. | |
You understand that my sole desire is conscientiously to carry out his | |
wishes; that is my only reason for being here. I came simply to help him | |
and you.” | |
“Now I see it all! I know who has been intriguing—I know!” cried | |
the princess. | |
“That’s not the point, my dear.” | |
“It’s that protégé of yours, that sweet Princess Drubetskáya, | |
that Anna Mikháylovna whom I would not take for a housemaid... the | |
infamous, vile woman!” | |
“Do not let us lose any time...” | |
“Ah, don’t talk to me! 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. I know it was then he wrote this | |
vile, infamous paper, but I thought the thing was invalid.” | |
“We’ve got to it at last—why did you not tell me about it | |
sooner?” | |
“It’s in the inlaid portfolio that he keeps under his pillow,” | |
said the princess, ignoring his question. “Now I know! Yes; if I have | |
a sin, a great sin, it is hatred of that vile woman!” almost shrieked | |
the princess, now quite changed. “And what does she come worming | |
herself in here for? But I will give her a piece of my mind. The time | |
will come!” | |
CHAPTER XXII | |
While these conversations were going on in the reception room and the | |
princess’ room, a carriage containing Pierre (who had been sent for) | |
and Anna Mikháylovna (who found it necessary to accompany him) was | |
driving into the court of Count Bezúkhov’s house. As the wheels | |
rolled softly over the straw beneath the windows, Anna Mikháylovna, | |
having turned with words of comfort to her companion, realized that | |
he was asleep in his corner and woke him up. Rousing himself, Pierre | |
followed Anna Mikháylovna out of the carriage, and only then began | |
to think of the interview with his dying father which awaited him. He | |
noticed that they had not come to the front entrance but to the back | |
door. While he was getting down from the carriage steps two men, who | |
looked like tradespeople, ran hurriedly from the entrance and hid in the | |
shadow of the wall. Pausing for a moment, Pierre noticed several other | |
men of the same kind hiding in the shadow of the house on both sides. | |
But neither Anna Mikháylovna nor the footman nor the coachman, who | |
could not help seeing these people, took any notice of them. “It seems | |
to be all right,” Pierre concluded, and followed Anna Mikháylovna. | |
She hurriedly ascended the narrow dimly lit stone staircase, calling to | |
Pierre, who was lagging behind, to follow. Though he did not see why it | |
was necessary for him to go to the count at all, still less why he had | |
to go by the back stairs, yet judging by Anna Mikháylovna’s air | |
of assurance and haste, Pierre concluded that it was all absolutely | |
necessary. Halfway up the stairs they were almost knocked over by | |
some men who, carrying pails, came running downstairs, their boots | |
clattering. These men pressed close to the wall to let Pierre and Anna | |
Mikháylovna pass and did not evince the least surprise at seeing them | |
there. | |
“Is this the way to the princesses’ apartments?” asked Anna | |
Mikháylovna of one of them. | |
“Yes,” replied a footman in a bold loud voice, as if anything were | |
now permissible; “the door to the left, ma’am.” | |
“Perhaps the count did not ask for me,” said Pierre when he reached | |
the landing. “I’d better go to my own room.” | |
Anna Mikháylovna paused and waited for him to come up. | |
“Ah, my friend!” she said, touching his arm as she had done her | |
son’s when speaking to him that afternoon, “believe me I suffer no | |
less than you do, but be a man!” | |
“But really, hadn’t I better go away?” he asked, looking kindly at | |
her over his spectacles. | |
“Ah, my dear friend! Forget the wrongs that may have been done you. | |
Think that he is your father ... perhaps in the agony of death.” She | |
sighed. “I have loved you like a son from the first. Trust yourself to | |
me, Pierre. I shall not forget your interests.” | |
Pierre did not understand a word, but the conviction that all this had | |
to be grew stronger, and he meekly followed Anna Mikháylovna who was | |
already opening a door. | |
This door led into a back anteroom. An old man, a servant of the | |
princesses, sat in a corner knitting a stocking. Pierre had never been | |
in this part of the house and did not even know of the existence of | |
these rooms. Anna Mikháylovna, addressing a maid who was hurrying past | |
with a decanter on a tray as “my dear” and “my sweet,” asked | |
about the princess’ health and then led Pierre along a stone passage. | |
The first door on the left led into the princesses’ apartments. The | |
maid with the decanter in her haste had not closed the door (everything | |
in the house was done in haste at that time), and Pierre and Anna | |
Mikháylovna in passing instinctively glanced into the room, where | |
Prince Vasíli and the eldest princess were sitting close together | |
talking. Seeing them pass, Prince Vasíli drew back with obvious | |
impatience, while the princess jumped up and with a gesture of | |
desperation slammed the door with all her might. | |
This action was so unlike her usual composure and the fear depicted on | |
Prince Vasíli’s face so out of keeping with his dignity that Pierre | |
stopped and glanced inquiringly over his spectacles at his guide. Anna | |
Mikháylovna evinced no surprise, she only smiled faintly and sighed, as | |
if to say that this was no more than she had expected. | |
“Be a man, my friend. I will look after your interests,” said she in | |
reply to his look, and went still faster along the passage. | |
Pierre could not make out what it was all about, and still less what | |
“watching over his interests” meant, but he decided that all these | |
things had to be. From the passage they went into a large, dimly | |
lit room adjoining the count’s reception room. It was one of those | |
sumptuous but cold apartments known to Pierre only from the front | |
approach, but even in this room there now stood an empty bath, and water | |
had been spilled on the carpet. They were met by a deacon with a censer | |
and by a servant who passed out on tiptoe without heeding them. They | |
went into the reception room familiar to Pierre, with two Italian | |
windows opening into the conservatory, with its large bust and full | |
length portrait of Catherine the Great. The same people were still | |
sitting here in almost the same positions as before, whispering to one | |
another. All became silent and turned to look at the pale tear-worn Anna | |
Mikháylovna as she entered, and at the big stout figure of Pierre who, | |
hanging his head, meekly followed her. | |
Anna Mikháylovna’s face expressed a consciousness that the decisive | |
moment had arrived. With the air of a practical Petersburg lady she now, | |
keeping Pierre close beside her, entered the room even more boldly than | |
that afternoon. She felt that as she brought with her the person the | |
dying man wished to see, her own admission was assured. Casting a rapid | |
glance at all those in the room and noticing the count’s confessor | |
there, she glided up to him with a sort of amble, not exactly bowing yet | |
seeming to grow suddenly smaller, and respectfully received the blessing | |
first of one and then of another priest. | |
“God be thanked that you are in time,” said she to one of the | |
priests; “all we relatives have been in such anxiety. This young | |
man is the count’s son,” she added more softly. “What a terrible | |
moment!” | |
Having said this she went up to the doctor. | |
“Dear doctor,” said she, “this young man is the count’s son. Is | |
there any hope?” | |
The doctor cast a rapid glance upwards and silently shrugged his | |
shoulders. Anna Mikháylovna with just the same movement raised her | |
shoulders and eyes, almost closing the latter, sighed, and moved away | |
from the doctor to Pierre. To him, in a particularly respectful and | |
tenderly sad voice, she said: | |
“Trust in His mercy!” and pointing out a small sofa for him to sit | |
and wait for her, she went silently toward the door that everyone was | |
watching and it creaked very slightly as she disappeared behind it. | |
Pierre, having made up his mind to obey his monitress implicitly, moved | |
toward the sofa she had indicated. As soon as Anna Mikháylovna had | |
disappeared he noticed that the eyes of all in the room turned to him | |
with something more than curiosity and sympathy. He noticed that they | |
whispered to one another, casting significant looks at him with a kind | |
of awe and even servility. A deference such as he had never before | |
received was shown him. A strange lady, the one who had been talking to | |
the priests, rose and offered him her seat; an aide-de-camp picked up | |
and returned a glove Pierre had dropped; the doctors became respectfully | |
silent as he passed by, and moved to make way for him. At first Pierre | |
wished to take another seat so as not to trouble the lady, and also to | |
pick up the glove himself and to pass round the doctors who were not | |
even in his way; but all at once he felt that this would not do, and | |
that tonight he was a person obliged to perform some sort of awful | |
rite which everyone expected of him, and that he was therefore bound | |
to accept their services. He took the glove in silence from the | |
aide-de-camp, and sat down in the lady’s chair, placing his huge hands | |
symmetrically on his knees in the naïve attitude of an Egyptian statue, | |
and decided in his own mind that all was as it should be, and that in | |
order not to lose his head and do foolish things he must not act on his | |
own ideas tonight, but must yield himself up entirely to the will of | |
those who were guiding him. | |
Not two minutes had passed before Prince Vasíli with head erect | |
majestically entered the room. He was wearing his long coat with three | |
stars on his breast. He seemed to have grown thinner since the morning; | |
his eyes seemed larger than usual when he glanced round and noticed | |
Pierre. He went up to him, took his hand (a thing he never used to do), | |
and drew it downwards as if wishing to ascertain whether it was firmly | |
fixed on. | |
“Courage, courage, my friend! He has asked to see you. That is | |
well!” and he turned to go. | |
But Pierre thought it necessary to ask: “How is...” and hesitated, | |
not knowing whether it would be proper to call the dying man “the | |
count,” yet ashamed to call him “father.” | |
“He had another stroke about half an hour ago. Courage, my | |
friend...” | |
Pierre’s mind was in such a confused state that the word “stroke” | |
suggested to him a blow from something. He looked at Prince Vasíli | |
in perplexity, and only later grasped that a stroke was an attack of | |
illness. Prince Vasíli said something to Lorrain in passing and went | |
through the door on tiptoe. He could not walk well on tiptoe and his | |
whole body jerked at each step. The eldest princess followed him, and | |
the priests and deacons and some servants also went in at the door. | |
Through that door was heard a noise of things being moved about, and | |
at last Anna Mikháylovna, still with the same expression, pale but | |
resolute in the discharge of duty, ran out and touching Pierre lightly | |
on the arm said: | |
“The divine mercy is inexhaustible! Unction is about to be | |
administered. Come.” | |
Pierre went in at the door, stepping on the soft carpet, and noticed | |
that the strange lady, the aide-de-camp, and some of the servants, all | |
followed him in, as if there were now no further need for permission to | |
enter that room. | |
CHAPTER XXIII | |
Pierre well knew this large room divided by columns and an arch, its | |
walls hung round with Persian carpets. The part of the room behind the | |
columns, with a high silk-curtained mahogany bedstead on one side and | |
on the other an immense case containing icons, was brightly illuminated | |
with red light like a Russian church during evening service. Under | |
the gleaming icons stood a long invalid chair, and in that chair | |
on snowy-white smooth pillows, evidently freshly changed, Pierre | |
saw—covered to the waist by a bright green quilt—the familiar, | |
majestic figure of his father, Count Bezúkhov, with that gray mane of | |
hair above his broad forehead which reminded one of a lion, and the deep | |
characteristically noble wrinkles of his handsome, ruddy face. He lay | |
just under the icons; his large thick hands outside the quilt. Into the | |
right hand, which was lying palm downwards, a wax taper had been thrust | |
between forefinger and thumb, and an old servant, bending over from | |
behind the chair, held it in position. By the chair stood the priests, | |
their long hair falling over their magnificent glittering vestments, | |
with lighted tapers in their hands, slowly and solemnly conducting the | |
service. A little behind them stood the two younger princesses holding | |
handkerchiefs to their eyes, and just in front of them their eldest | |
sister, Catiche, with a vicious and determined look steadily fixed on | |
the icons, as though declaring to all that she could not answer for | |
herself should she glance round. Anna Mikháylovna, with a meek, | |
sorrowful, and all-forgiving expression on her face, stood by the door | |
near the strange lady. Prince Vasíli in front of the door, near the | |
invalid chair, a wax taper in his left hand, was leaning his left arm on | |
the carved back of a velvet chair he had turned round for the purpose, | |
and was crossing himself with his right hand, turning his eyes upward | |
each time he touched his forehead. His face wore a calm look of piety | |
and resignation to the will of God. “If you do not understand these | |
sentiments,” he seemed to be saying, “so much the worse for you!” | |
Behind him stood the aide-de-camp, the doctors, and the menservants; | |
the men and women had separated as in church. All were silently crossing | |
themselves, and the reading of the church service, the subdued chanting | |
of deep bass voices, and in the intervals sighs and the shuffling of | |
feet were the only sounds that could be heard. Anna Mikháylovna, with | |
an air of importance that showed that she felt she quite knew what she | |
was about, went across the room to where Pierre was standing and gave | |
him a taper. He lit it and, distracted by observing those around him, | |
began crossing himself with the hand that held the taper. | |
Sophie, the rosy, laughter-loving, youngest princess with the mole, | |
watched him. She smiled, hid her face in her handkerchief, and remained | |
with it hidden for awhile; then looking up and seeing Pierre she | |
again began to laugh. She evidently felt unable to look at him | |
without laughing, but could not resist looking at him: so to be out of | |
temptation she slipped quietly behind one of the columns. In the midst | |
of the service the voices of the priests suddenly ceased, they whispered | |
to one another, and the old servant who was holding the count’s hand | |
got up and said something to the ladies. Anna Mikháylovna stepped | |
forward and, stooping over the dying man, beckoned to Lorrain from | |
behind her back. The French doctor held no taper; he was leaning | |
against one of the columns in a respectful attitude implying that he, | |
a foreigner, in spite of all differences of faith, understood the full | |
importance of the rite now being performed and even approved of it. He | |
now approached the sick man with the noiseless step of one in full vigor | |
of life, with his delicate white fingers raised from the green quilt the | |
hand that was free, and turning sideways felt the pulse and reflected | |
a moment. The sick man was given something to drink, there was a | |
stir around him, then the people resumed their places and the service | |
continued. During this interval Pierre noticed that Prince Vasíli | |
left the chair on which he had been leaning, and—with an air | |
which intimated that he knew what he was about and if others did not | |
understand him it was so much the worse for them—did not go up to the | |
dying man, but passed by him, joined the eldest princess, and moved | |
with her to the side of the room where stood the high bedstead with its | |
silken hangings. On leaving the bed both Prince Vasíli and the princess | |
passed out by a back door, but returned to their places one after the | |
other before the service was concluded. Pierre paid no more attention | |
to this occurrence than to the rest of what went on, having made up his | |
mind once for all that what he saw happening around him that evening was | |
in some way essential. | |
The chanting of the service ceased, and the voice of the priest was | |
heard respectfully congratulating the dying man on having received the | |
sacrament. The dying man lay as lifeless and immovable as before. Around | |
him everyone began to stir: steps were audible and whispers, among which | |
Anna Mikháylovna’s was the most distinct. | |
Pierre heard her say: | |
“Certainly he must be moved onto the bed; here it will be | |
impossible...” | |
The sick man was so surrounded by doctors, princesses, and servants | |
that Pierre could no longer see the reddish-yellow face with its gray | |
mane—which, though he saw other faces as well, he had not lost sight | |
of for a single moment during the whole service. He judged by the | |
cautious movements of those who crowded round the invalid chair that | |
they had lifted the dying man and were moving him. | |
“Catch hold of my arm or you’ll drop him!” he heard one of the | |
servants say in a frightened whisper. “Catch hold from underneath. | |
Here!” exclaimed different voices; and the heavy breathing of the | |
bearers and the shuffling of their feet grew more hurried, as if the | |
weight they were carrying were too much for them. | |
As the bearers, among whom was Anna Mikháylovna, passed the young man | |
he caught a momentary glimpse between their heads and backs of the dying | |
man’s high, stout, uncovered chest and powerful shoulders, raised by | |
those who were holding him under the armpits, and of his gray, curly, | |
leonine head. This head, with its remarkably broad brow and cheekbones, | |
its handsome, sensual mouth, and its cold, majestic expression, was | |
not disfigured by the approach of death. It was the same as Pierre | |
remembered it three months before, when the count had sent him to | |
Petersburg. But now this head was swaying helplessly with the uneven | |
movements of the bearers, and the cold listless gaze fixed itself upon | |
nothing. | |
After a few minutes’ bustle beside the high bedstead, those who had | |
carried the sick man dispersed. Anna Mikháylovna touched Pierre’s | |
hand and said, “Come.” Pierre went with her to the bed on which the | |
sick man had been laid in a stately pose in keeping with the ceremony | |
just completed. He lay with his head propped high on the pillows. His | |
hands were symmetrically placed on the green silk quilt, the palms | |
downward. 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. Either this look meant nothing but that as long as one has eyes | |
they must look somewhere, or it meant too much. Pierre hesitated, | |
not knowing what to do, and glanced inquiringly at his guide. Anna | |
Mikháylovna made a hurried sign with her eyes, glancing at the sick | |
man’s hand and moving her lips as if to send it a kiss. Pierre, | |
carefully stretching his neck so as not to touch the quilt, followed her | |
suggestion and pressed his lips to the large boned, fleshy hand. Neither | |
the hand nor a single muscle of the count’s face stirred. Once more | |
Pierre looked questioningly at Anna Mikháylovna to see what he was to | |
do next. Anna Mikháylovna with her eyes indicated a chair that stood | |
beside the bed. Pierre obediently sat down, his eyes asking if he were | |
doing right. Anna Mikháylovna nodded approvingly. Again Pierre fell | |
into the naïvely symmetrical pose of an Egyptian statue, evidently | |
distressed that his stout and clumsy body took up so much room and doing | |
his utmost to look as small as possible. He looked at the count, who | |
still gazed at the spot where Pierre’s face had been before he sat | |
down. Anna Mikháylovna indicated by her attitude her consciousness of | |
the pathetic importance of these last moments of meeting between the | |
father and son. This lasted about two minutes, which to Pierre seemed an | |
hour. Suddenly the broad muscles and lines of the count’s face began | |
to twitch. The twitching increased, the handsome mouth was drawn to one | |
side (only now did Pierre realize how near death his father was), and | |
from that distorted mouth issued an indistinct, hoarse sound. Anna | |
Mikháylovna looked attentively at the sick man’s eyes, trying to | |
guess what he wanted; she pointed first to Pierre, then to some drink, | |
then named Prince Vasíli in an inquiring whisper, then pointed to the | |
quilt. The eyes and face of the sick man showed impatience. He made an | |
effort to look at the servant who stood constantly at the head of the | |
bed. | |
“Wants to turn on the other side,” whispered the servant, and got up | |
to turn the count’s heavy body toward the wall. | |
Pierre rose to help him. | |
While the count was being turned over, one of his arms fell back | |
helplessly and he made a fruitless effort to pull it forward. Whether he | |
noticed the look of terror with which Pierre regarded that lifeless arm, | |
or whether some other thought flitted across his dying brain, at any | |
rate he glanced at the refractory arm, at Pierre’s terror-stricken | |
face, and again at the arm, and on his face a feeble, piteous smile | |
appeared, quite out of keeping with his features, that seemed to deride | |
his own helplessness. At sight of this smile Pierre felt an unexpected | |
quivering in his breast and a tickling in his nose, and tears dimmed his | |
eyes. The sick man was turned on to his side with his face to the wall. | |
He sighed. | |
“He is dozing,” said Anna Mikháylovna, observing that one of the | |
princesses was coming to take her turn at watching. “Let us go.” | |
Pierre went out. | |
CHAPTER XXIV | |
There was now no one in the reception room except Prince Vasíli and the | |
eldest princess, who were sitting under the portrait of Catherine the | |
Great and talking eagerly. As soon as they saw Pierre and his companion | |
they became silent, and Pierre thought he saw the princess hide | |
something as she whispered: | |
“I can’t bear the sight of that woman.” | |
“Catiche has had tea served in the small drawing room,” said Prince | |
Vasíli to Anna Mikháylovna. “Go and take something, my poor Anna | |
Mikháylovna, or you will not hold out.” | |
To Pierre he said nothing, merely giving his arm a sympathetic squeeze | |
below the shoulder. Pierre went with Anna Mikháylovna into the small | |
drawing room. | |
“There is nothing so refreshing after a sleepless night as a cup | |
of this delicious Russian tea,” Lorrain was saying with an air of | |
restrained animation as he stood sipping tea from a delicate Chinese | |
handleless cup before a table on which tea and a cold supper were laid | |
in the small circular room. Around the table all who were at Count | |
Bezúkhov’s house that night had gathered to fortify themselves. | |
Pierre well remembered this small circular drawing room with its mirrors | |
and little tables. During balls given at the house Pierre, who did not | |
know how to dance, had liked sitting in this room to watch the ladies | |
who, as they passed through in their ball dresses with diamonds and | |
pearls on their bare shoulders, looked at themselves in the brilliantly | |
lighted mirrors which repeated their reflections several times. Now | |
this same room was dimly lighted by two candles. On one small table tea | |
things and supper dishes stood in disorder, and in the middle of the | |
night a motley throng of people sat there, not merrymaking, but somberly | |
whispering, and betraying by every word and movement that they none | |
of them forgot what was happening and what was about to happen in the | |
bedroom. Pierre did not eat anything though he would very much have | |
liked to. He looked inquiringly at his monitress and saw that she was | |
again going on tiptoe to the reception room where they had left Prince | |
Vasíli and the eldest princess. Pierre concluded that this also was | |
essential, and after a short interval followed her. Anna Mikháylovna | |
was standing beside the princess, and they were both speaking in excited | |
whispers. | |
“Permit me, Princess, to know what is necessary and what is not | |
necessary,” said the younger of the two speakers, evidently in the | |
same state of excitement as when she had slammed the door of her room. | |
“But, my dear princess,” answered Anna Mikháylovna blandly but | |
impressively, blocking the way to the bedroom and preventing the other | |
from passing, “won’t this be too much for poor Uncle at a moment | |
when he needs repose? Worldly conversation at a moment when his soul is | |
already prepared...” | |
Prince Vasíli was seated in an easy chair in his familiar attitude, | |
with one leg crossed high above the other. His cheeks, which were so | |
flabby that they looked heavier below, were twitching violently; but | |
he wore the air of a man little concerned in what the two ladies were | |
saying. | |
“Come, my dear Anna Mikháylovna, let Catiche do as she pleases. You | |
know how fond the count is of her.” | |
“I don’t even know what is in this paper,” said the younger of | |
the two ladies, addressing Prince Vasíli and pointing to an inlaid | |
portfolio she held in her hand. “All I know is that his real will is | |
in his writing table, and this is a paper he has forgotten....” | |
She tried to pass Anna Mikháylovna, but the latter sprang so as to bar | |
her path. | |
“I know, my dear, kind princess,” said Anna Mikháylovna, seizing | |
the portfolio so firmly that it was plain she would not let go easily. | |
“Dear princess, I beg and implore you, have some pity on him! Je vous | |
en conjure...” | |
The princess did not reply. Their efforts in the struggle for the | |
portfolio were the only sounds audible, but it was evident that if | |
the princess did speak, her words would not be flattering to Anna | |
Mikháylovna. Though the latter held on tenaciously, her voice lost none | |
of its honeyed firmness and softness. | |
“Pierre, my dear, come here. I think he will not be out of place in a | |
family consultation; is it not so, Prince?” | |
“Why don’t you speak, cousin?” suddenly shrieked the princess so | |
loud that those in the drawing room heard her and were startled. “Why | |
do you remain silent when heaven knows who permits herself to | |
interfere, making a scene on the very threshold of a dying man’s room? | |
Intriguer!” she hissed viciously, and tugged with all her might at the | |
portfolio. | |
But Anna Mikháylovna went forward a step or two to keep her hold on the | |
portfolio, and changed her grip. | |
Prince Vasíli rose. “Oh!” said he with reproach and surprise, | |
“this is absurd! Come, let go I tell you.” | |
The princess let go. | |
“And you too!” | |
But Anna Mikháylovna did not obey him. | |
“Let go, I tell you! I will take the responsibility. I myself will go | |
and ask him, I!... does that satisfy you?” | |
“But, Prince,” said Anna Mikháylovna, “after such a solemn | |
sacrament, allow him a moment’s peace! Here, Pierre, tell them your | |
opinion,” said she, turning to the young man who, having come quite | |
close, was gazing with astonishment at the angry face of the princess | |
which had lost all dignity, and at the twitching cheeks of Prince | |
Vasíli. | |
“Remember that you will answer for the consequences,” said Prince | |
Vasíli severely. “You don’t know what you are doing.” | |
“Vile woman!” shouted the princess, darting unexpectedly at Anna | |
Mikháylovna and snatching the portfolio from her. | |
Prince Vasíli bent his head and spread out his hands. | |
At this moment that terrible door, which Pierre had watched so long | |
and which had always opened so quietly, burst noisily open and banged | |
against the wall, and the second of the three sisters rushed out | |
wringing her hands. | |
“What are you doing!” she cried vehemently. “He is dying and you | |
leave me alone with him!” | |
Her sister dropped the portfolio. Anna Mikháylovna, stooping, quickly | |
caught up the object of contention and ran into the bedroom. The eldest | |
princess and Prince Vasíli, recovering themselves, followed her. A few | |
minutes later the eldest sister came out with a pale hard face, again | |
biting her underlip. At sight of Pierre her expression showed an | |
irrepressible hatred. | |
“Yes, now you may be glad!” said she; “this is what you have | |
been waiting for.” And bursting into tears she hid her face in her | |
handkerchief and rushed from the room. | |
Prince Vasíli came next. He staggered to the sofa on which Pierre was | |
sitting and dropped onto it, covering his face with his hand. Pierre | |
noticed that he was pale and that his jaw quivered and shook as if in an | |
ague. | |
“Ah, my friend!” said he, taking Pierre by the elbow; and there was | |
in his voice a sincerity and weakness Pierre had never observed in it | |
before. “How often we sin, how much we deceive, and all for what? I am | |
near sixty, dear friend... I too... All will end in death, all! Death is | |
awful...” and he burst into tears. | |
Anna Mikháylovna came out last. She approached Pierre with slow, quiet | |
steps. | |
“Pierre!” she said. | |
Pierre gave her an inquiring look. She kissed the young man on his | |
forehead, wetting him with her tears. Then after a pause she said: | |
“He is no more....” | |
Pierre looked at her over his spectacles. | |
“Come, I will go with you. Try to weep, nothing gives such relief as | |
tears.” | |
She led him into the dark drawing room and Pierre was glad no one could | |
see his face. Anna Mikháylovna left him, and when she returned he was | |
fast asleep with his head on his arm. | |
In the morning Anna Mikháylovna said to Pierre: | |
“Yes, my dear, this is a great loss for us all, not to speak of you. | |
But God will support you: you are young, and are now, I hope, in command | |
of an immense fortune. The will has not yet been opened. I know you | |
well enough to be sure that this will not turn your head, but it imposes | |
duties on you, and you must be a man.” | |
Pierre was silent. | |
“Perhaps later on I may tell you, my dear boy, that if I had not been | |
there, God only knows what would have happened! You know, Uncle promised | |
me only the day before yesterday not to forget Borís. But he had | |
no time. I hope, my dear friend, you will carry out your father’s | |
wish?” | |
Pierre understood nothing of all this and coloring shyly looked in | |
silence at Princess Anna Mikháylovna. After her talk with Pierre, Anna | |
Mikháylovna returned to the Rostóvs’ and went to bed. On waking in | |
the morning she told the Rostóvs and all her acquaintances the details | |
of Count Bezúkhov’s death. She said the count had died as she would | |
herself wish to die, that his end was not only touching but edifying. As | |
to the last meeting between father and son, it was so touching that she | |
could not think of it without tears, and did not know which had behaved | |
better during those awful moments—the father who so remembered | |
everything and everybody at last and had spoken such pathetic words to | |
the son, or Pierre, whom it had been pitiful to see, so stricken was he | |
with grief, though he tried hard to hide it in order not to sadden his | |
dying father. “It is painful, but it does one good. It uplifts the | |
soul to see such men as the old count and his worthy son,” said she. | |
Of the behavior of the eldest princess and Prince Vasíli she spoke | |
disapprovingly, but in whispers and as a great secret. | |
CHAPTER XXV | |
At Bald Hills, Prince Nicholas Andréevich Bolkónski’s estate, the | |
arrival of young Prince Andrew and his wife was daily expected, but | |
this expectation did not upset the regular routine of life in the old | |
prince’s household. General in Chief Prince Nicholas Andréevich | |
(nicknamed in society, “the King of Prussia”) ever since the Emperor | |
Paul had exiled him to his country estate had lived there continuously | |
with his daughter, Princess Mary, and her companion, Mademoiselle | |
Bourienne. Though in the new reign he was free to return to the | |
capitals, he still continued to live in the country, remarking that | |
anyone who wanted to see him could come the hundred miles from Moscow to | |
Bald Hills, while he himself needed no one and nothing. He used to | |
say that there are only two sources of human vice—idleness and | |
superstition, and only two virtues—activity and intelligence. He | |
himself undertook his daughter’s education, and to develop these two | |
cardinal virtues in her gave her lessons in algebra and geometry | |
till she was twenty, and arranged her life so that her whole time was | |
occupied. He was himself always occupied: writing his memoirs, solving | |
problems in higher mathematics, turning snuffboxes on a lathe, working | |
in the garden, or superintending the building that was always going on | |
at his estate. As regularity is a prime condition facilitating activity, | |
regularity in his household was carried to the highest point of | |
exactitude. He always came to table under precisely the same conditions, | |
and not only at the same hour but at the same minute. With those about | |
him, from his daughter to his serfs, the prince was sharp and invariably | |
exacting, so that without being a hardhearted man he inspired such fear | |
and respect as few hardhearted men would have aroused. Although he was | |
in retirement and had now no influence in political affairs, every high | |
official appointed to the province in which the prince’s estate lay | |
considered it his duty to visit him and waited in the lofty antechamber | |
just as the architect, gardener, or Princess Mary did, till the prince | |
appeared punctually to the appointed hour. Everyone sitting in this | |
antechamber experienced the same feeling of respect and even fear when | |
the enormously high study door opened and showed the figure of a rather | |
small old man, with powdered wig, small withered hands, and bushy gray | |
eyebrows which, when he frowned, sometimes hid the gleam of his shrewd, | |
youthfully glittering eyes. | |
On the morning of the day that the young couple were to arrive, Princess | |
Mary entered the antechamber as usual at the time appointed for the | |
morning greeting, crossing herself with trepidation and repeating a | |
silent prayer. Every morning she came in like that, and every morning | |
prayed that the daily interview might pass off well. | |
An old powdered manservant who was sitting in the antechamber rose | |
quietly and said in a whisper: “Please walk in.” | |
Through the door came the regular hum of a lathe. The princess timidly | |
opened the door which moved noiselessly and easily. She paused at the | |
entrance. The prince was working at the lathe and after glancing round | |
continued his work. | |
The enormous study was full of things evidently in constant use. | |
The large table covered with books and plans, the tall glass-fronted | |
bookcases with keys in the locks, the high desk for writing while | |
standing up, on which lay an open exercise book, and the lathe with | |
tools laid ready to hand and shavings scattered around—all indicated | |
continuous, varied, and orderly activity. The motion of the small foot | |
shod in a Tartar boot embroidered with silver, and the firm pressure | |
of the lean sinewy hand, showed that the prince still possessed the | |
tenacious endurance and vigor of hardy old age. After a few more turns | |
of the lathe he removed his foot from the pedal, wiped his chisel, | |
dropped it into a leather pouch attached to the lathe, and, approaching | |
the table, summoned his daughter. He never gave his children a blessing, | |
so he simply held out his bristly cheek (as yet unshaven) and, regarding | |
her tenderly and attentively, said severely: | |
“Quite well? All right then, sit down.” He took the exercise book | |
containing lessons in geometry written by himself and drew up a chair | |
with his foot. | |
“For tomorrow!” said he, quickly finding the page and making a | |
scratch from one paragraph to another with his hard nail. | |
The princess bent over the exercise book on the table. | |
“Wait a bit, here’s a letter for you,” said the old man suddenly, | |
taking a letter addressed in a woman’s hand from a bag hanging above | |
the table, onto which he threw it. | |
At the sight of the letter red patches showed themselves on the | |
princess’ face. She took it quickly and bent her head over it. | |
“From Héloïse?” asked the prince with a cold smile that showed his | |
still sound, yellowish teeth. | |
“Yes, it’s from Julie,” replied the princess with a timid glance | |
and a timid smile. | |
“I’ll let two more letters pass, but the third I’ll read,” said | |
the prince sternly; “I’m afraid you write much nonsense. I’ll read | |
the third!” | |
“Read this if you like, Father,” said the princess, blushing still | |
more and holding out the letter. | |
“The third, I said the third!” cried the prince abruptly, pushing | |
the letter away, and leaning his elbows on the table he drew toward him | |
the exercise book containing geometrical figures. | |
“Well, madam,” he began, stooping over the book close to his | |
daughter and placing an arm on the back of the chair on which she sat, | |
so that she felt herself surrounded on all sides by the acrid scent of | |
old age and tobacco, which she had known so long. “Now, madam, these | |
triangles are equal; please note that the angle ABC...” | |
The princess looked in a scared way at her father’s eyes glittering | |
close to her; the red patches on her face came and went, and it was | |
plain that she understood nothing and was so frightened that her | |
fear would prevent her understanding any of her father’s further | |
explanations, however clear they might be. Whether it was the | |
teacher’s fault or the pupil’s, this same thing happened every day: | |
the princess’ eyes grew dim, she could not see and could not hear | |
anything, but was only conscious of her stern father’s withered face | |
close to her, of his breath and the smell of him, and could think only | |
of how to get away quickly to her own room to make out the problem in | |
peace. The old man was beside himself: moved the chair on which he was | |
sitting noisily backward and forward, made efforts to control himself | |
and not become vehement, but almost always did become vehement, scolded, | |
and sometimes flung the exercise book away. | |
The princess gave a wrong answer. | |
“Well now, isn’t she a fool!” shouted the prince, pushing the book | |
aside and turning sharply away; but rising immediately, he paced up and | |
down, lightly touched his daughter’s hair and sat down again. | |
He drew up his chair, and continued to explain. | |
“This won’t do, Princess; it won’t do,” said he, when Princess | |
Mary, having taken and closed the exercise book with the next day’s | |
lesson, was about to leave: “Mathematics are most important, madam! | |
I don’t want to have you like our silly ladies. Get used to it and | |
you’ll like it,” and he patted her cheek. “It will drive all the | |
nonsense out of your head.” | |
She turned to go, but he stopped her with a gesture and took an uncut | |
book from the high desk. | |
“Here is some sort of Key to the Mysteries that your Héloïse has | |
sent you. Religious! I don’t interfere with anyone’s belief... I | |
have looked at it. Take it. Well, now go. Go.” | |
He patted her on the shoulder and himself closed the door after her. | |
Princess Mary went back to her room with the sad, scared expression that | |
rarely left her and which made her plain, sickly face yet plainer. She | |
sat down at her writing table, on which stood miniature portraits and | |
which was littered with books and papers. The princess was as untidy as | |
her father was tidy. She put down the geometry book and eagerly broke | |
the seal of her letter. It was from her most intimate friend from | |
childhood; that same Julie Karágina who had been at the Rostóvs’ | |
name-day party. | |
Julie wrote in French: | |
Dear and precious Friend, How terrible and frightful a thing is | |
separation! Though I tell myself that half my life and half my happiness | |
are wrapped up in you, and that in spite of the distance separating us | |
our hearts are united by indissoluble bonds, my heart rebels against | |
fate and in spite of the pleasures and distractions around me I cannot | |
overcome a certain secret sorrow that has been in my heart ever since | |
we parted. Why are we not together as we were last summer, in your big | |
study, on the blue sofa, the confidential sofa? Why cannot I now, as | |
three months ago, draw fresh moral strength from your look, so gentle, | |
calm, and penetrating, a look I loved so well and seem to see before me | |
as I write? | |
Having read thus far, Princess Mary sighed and glanced into the mirror | |
which stood on her right. It reflected a weak, ungraceful figure and | |
thin face. Her eyes, always sad, now looked with particular hopelessness | |
at her reflection in the glass. “She flatters me,” thought the | |
princess, turning away and continuing to read. But Julie did not flatter | |
her friend, the princess’ eyes—large, deep and luminous (it seemed | |
as if at times there radiated from them shafts of warm light)—were | |
so beautiful that very often in spite of the plainness of her face | |
they gave her an attraction more powerful than that of beauty. But the | |
princess never saw the beautiful expression of her own eyes—the look | |
they had when she was not thinking of herself. As with everyone, her | |
face assumed a forced unnatural expression as soon as she looked in a | |
glass. She went on reading: | |
All Moscow talks of nothing but war. One of my two brothers is already | |
abroad, the other is with the Guards, who are starting on their march | |
to the frontier. Our dear Emperor has left Petersburg and it is thought | |
intends to expose his precious person to the chances of war. God grant | |
that the Corsican monster who is destroying the peace of Europe may | |
be overthrown by the angel whom it has pleased the Almighty, in His | |
goodness, to give us as sovereign! To say nothing of my brothers, this | |
war has deprived me of one of the associations nearest my heart. I mean | |
young Nicholas Rostóv, who with his enthusiasm could not bear to remain | |
inactive and has left the university to join the army. I will confess to | |
you, dear Mary, that in spite of his extreme youth his departure for | |
the army was a great grief to me. This young man, of whom I spoke to you | |
last summer, is so noble-minded and full of that real youthfulness which | |
one seldom finds nowadays among our old men of twenty and, particularly, | |
he is so frank and has so much heart. He is so pure and poetic that | |
my relations with him, transient as they were, have been one of the | |
sweetest comforts to my poor heart, which has already suffered so much. | |
Someday I will tell you about our parting and all that was said then. | |
That is still too fresh. Ah, dear friend, you are happy not to know | |
these poignant joys and sorrows. You are fortunate, for the latter are | |
generally the stronger! I know very well that Count Nicholas is too | |
young ever to be more to me than a friend, but this sweet friendship, | |
this poetic and pure intimacy, were what my heart needed. But enough of | |
this! The chief news, about which all Moscow gossips, is the death of | |
old Count Bezúkhov, and his inheritance. Fancy! The three princesses | |
have received very little, Prince Vasíli nothing, and it is Monsieur | |
Pierre who has inherited all the property and has besides been | |
recognized as legitimate; so that he is now Count Bezúkhov and | |
possessor of the finest fortune in Russia. It is rumored that Prince | |
Vasíli played a very despicable part in this affair and that he | |
returned to Petersburg quite crestfallen. | |
I confess I understand very little about all these matters of wills and | |
inheritance; but I do know that since this young man, whom we all used | |
to know as plain Monsieur Pierre, has become Count Bezúkhov and the | |
owner of one of the largest fortunes in Russia, I am much amused to | |
watch the change in the tone and manners of the mammas burdened by | |
marriageable daughters, and of the young ladies themselves, toward | |
him, though, between you and me, he always seemed to me a poor sort | |
of fellow. As for the past two years people have amused themselves | |
by finding husbands for me (most of whom I don’t even know), the | |
matchmaking chronicles of Moscow now speak of me as the future Countess | |
Bezúkhova. But you will understand that I have no desire for the post. | |
À propos of marriages: do you know that a while ago that universal | |
auntie Anna Mikháylovna told me, under the seal of strict secrecy, of | |
a plan of marriage for you. It is neither more nor less than with Prince | |
Vasíli’s son Anatole, whom they wish to reform by marrying him to | |
someone rich and distinguée, and it is on you that his relations’ | |
choice has fallen. I don’t know what you will think of it, but | |
I consider it my duty to let you know of it. He is said to be very | |
handsome and a terrible scapegrace. That is all I have been able to find | |
out about him. | |
But enough of gossip. I am at the end of my second sheet of paper, and | |
Mamma has sent for me to go and dine at the Apráksins’. Read the | |
mystical book I am sending you; it has an enormous success here. Though | |
there are things in it difficult for the feeble human mind to grasp, it | |
is an admirable book which calms and elevates the soul. Adieu! Give | |
my respects to monsieur your father and my compliments to Mademoiselle | |
Bourienne. I embrace you as I love you. | |
JULIE | |
P.S. Let me have news of your brother and his charming little wife. | |
The princess pondered awhile with a thoughtful smile and her luminous | |
eyes lit up so that her face was entirely transformed. Then she suddenly | |
rose and with her heavy tread went up to the table. She took a sheet of | |
paper and her hand moved rapidly over it. This is the reply she wrote, | |
also in French: | |
Dear and precious Friend, Your letter of the 13th has given me great | |
delight. So you still love me, my romantic Julie? Separation, of which | |
you say so much that is bad, does not seem to have had its usual effect | |
on you. You complain of our separation. What then should I say, if I | |
dared complain, I who am deprived of all who are dear to me? Ah, if | |
we had not religion to console us life would be very sad. Why do you | |
suppose that I should look severely on your affection for that young | |
man? On such matters I am only severe with myself. I understand such | |
feelings in others, and if never having felt them I cannot approve of | |
them, neither do I condemn them. Only it seems to me that Christian | |
love, love of one’s neighbor, love of one’s enemy, is worthier, | |
sweeter, and better than the feelings which the beautiful eyes of a | |
young man can inspire in a romantic and loving young girl like yourself. | |
The news of Count Bezúkhov’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. God preserve us from that terrible misfortune! | |
I cannot agree with you about Pierre, whom I knew as a child. He always | |
seemed to me to have an excellent heart, and that is the quality I value | |
most in people. As to his inheritance and the part played by Prince | |
Vasíli, it is very sad for both. Ah, my dear friend, our divine | |
Saviour’s words, that it is easier for a camel to go through the | |
eye of a needle than for a rich man to enter the Kingdom of God, are | |
terribly true. I pity Prince Vasíli but am still more sorry for Pierre. | |
So young, and burdened with such riches—to what temptations he will be | |
exposed! If I were asked what I desire most on earth, it would be to be | |
poorer than the poorest beggar. A thousand thanks, dear friend, for the | |
volume you have sent me and which has such success in Moscow. Yet since | |
you tell me that among some good things it contains others which our | |
weak human understanding cannot grasp, it seems to me rather useless to | |
spend time in reading what is unintelligible and can therefore bear | |
no fruit. I never could understand the fondness some people have for | |
confusing their minds by dwelling on mystical books that merely awaken | |
their doubts and excite their imagination, giving them a bent for | |
exaggeration quite contrary to Christian simplicity. Let us rather read | |
the Epistles and Gospels. Let us not seek to penetrate what mysteries | |
they contain; for how can we, miserable sinners that we are, know the | |
terrible and holy secrets of Providence while we remain in this flesh | |
which forms an impenetrable veil between us and the Eternal? Let us | |
rather confine ourselves to studying those sublime rules which our | |
divine Saviour has left for our guidance here below. Let us try to | |
conform to them and follow them, and let us be persuaded that the less | |
we let our feeble human minds roam, the better we shall please God, who | |
rejects all knowledge that does not come from Him; and the less we seek | |
to fathom what He has been pleased to conceal from us, the sooner will | |
He vouchsafe its revelation to us through His divine Spirit. | |
My father has not spoken to me of a suitor, but has only told me that he | |
has received a letter and is expecting a visit from Prince Vasíli. In | |
regard to this project of marriage for me, I will tell you, dear sweet | |
friend, that I look on marriage as a divine institution to which we must | |
conform. However painful it may be to me, should the Almighty lay | |
the duties of wife and mother upon me I shall try to perform them as | |
faithfully as I can, without disquieting myself by examining my feelings | |
toward him whom He may give me for husband. | |
I have had a letter from my brother, who announces his speedy arrival | |
at Bald Hills with his wife. This pleasure will be but a brief one, | |
however, for he will leave us again to take part in this unhappy war | |
into which we have been drawn, God knows how or why. Not only where you | |
are—at the heart of affairs and of the world—is the talk all of | |
war, even here amid fieldwork and the calm of nature—which townsfolk | |
consider characteristic of the country—rumors of war are heard | |
and painfully felt. My father talks of nothing but marches and | |
countermarches, things of which I understand nothing; and the day | |
before yesterday during my daily walk through the village I witnessed a | |
heartrending scene.... It was a convoy of conscripts enrolled from our | |
people and starting to join the army. You should have seen the state of | |
the mothers, wives, and children of the men who were going and should | |
have heard the sobs. It seems as though mankind has forgotten the | |
laws of its divine Saviour, Who preached love and forgiveness of | |
injuries—and that men attribute the greatest merit to skill in killing | |
one another. | |
Adieu, dear and kind friend; may our divine Saviour and His most Holy | |
Mother keep you in their holy and all-powerful care! | |
MARY | |
“Ah, you are sending off a letter, Princess? I have already dispatched | |
mine. I have written to my poor mother,” said the smiling Mademoiselle | |
Bourienne rapidly, in her pleasant mellow tones and with guttural r’s. | |
She brought into Princess Mary’s strenuous, mournful, and gloomy | |
world a quite different atmosphere, careless, lighthearted, and | |
self-satisfied. | |
“Princess, I must warn you,” she added, lowering her voice and | |
evidently listening to herself with pleasure, and speaking with | |
exaggerated grasseyement, “the prince has been scolding Michael | |
Ivánovich. He is in a very bad humor, very morose. Be prepared.” | |
“Ah, dear friend,” replied Princess Mary, “I have asked you never | |
to warn me of the humor my father is in. I do not allow myself to judge | |
him and would not have others do so.” | |
The princess glanced at her watch and, seeing that she was five minutes | |
late in starting her practice on the clavichord, went into the sitting | |
room with a look of alarm. Between twelve and two o’clock, as the | |
day was mapped out, the prince rested and the princess played the | |
clavichord. | |
CHAPTER XXVI | |
The gray-haired valet was sitting drowsily listening to the snoring of | |
the prince, who was in his large study. From the far side of the house | |
through the closed doors came the sound of difficult passages—twenty | |
times repeated—of a sonata by Dussek. | |
Just then a closed carriage and another with a hood drove up to the | |
porch. Prince Andrew got out of the carriage, helped his little wife to | |
alight, and let her pass into the house before him. Old Tíkhon, wearing | |
a wig, put his head out of the door of the antechamber, reported in | |
a whisper that the prince was sleeping, and hastily closed the door. | |
Tíkhon knew that neither the son’s arrival nor any other unusual | |
event must be allowed to disturb the appointed order of the day. Prince | |
Andrew apparently knew this as well as Tíkhon; he looked at his watch | |
as if to ascertain whether his father’s habits had changed since he | |
was at home last, and, having assured himself that they had not, he | |
turned to his wife. | |
“He will get up in twenty minutes. Let us go across to Mary’s | |
room,” he said. | |
The little princess had grown stouter during this time, but her eyes | |
and her short, downy, smiling lip lifted when she began to speak just as | |
merrily and prettily as ever. | |
“Why, this is a palace!” she said to her husband, looking around | |
with the expression with which people compliment their host at a ball. | |
“Let’s come, quick, quick!” And with a glance round, she smiled at | |
Tíkhon, at her husband, and at the footman who accompanied them. | |
“Is that Mary practicing? Let’s go quietly and take her by | |
surprise.” | |
Prince Andrew followed her with a courteous but sad expression. | |
“You’ve grown older, Tíkhon,” he said in passing to the old man, | |
who kissed his hand. | |
Before they reached the room from which the sounds of the clavichord | |
came, the pretty, fair-haired Frenchwoman, Mademoiselle Bourienne, | |
rushed out apparently beside herself with delight. | |
“Ah! what joy for the princess!” exclaimed she: “At last! I must | |
let her know.” | |
“No, no, please not... You are Mademoiselle Bourienne,” said | |
the little princess, kissing her. “I know you already through my | |
sister-in-law’s friendship for you. She was not expecting us?” | |
They went up to the door of the sitting room from which came the sound | |
of the oft-repeated passage of the sonata. Prince Andrew stopped and | |
made a grimace, as if expecting something unpleasant. | |
The little princess entered the room. The passage broke off in the | |
middle, a cry was heard, then Princess Mary’s heavy tread and the | |
sound of kissing. When Prince Andrew went in the two princesses, who | |
had only met once before for a short time at his wedding, were in | |
each other’s arms warmly pressing their lips to whatever place they | |
happened to touch. Mademoiselle Bourienne stood near them pressing her | |
hand to her heart, with a beatific smile and obviously equally ready to | |
cry or to laugh. Prince Andrew shrugged his shoulders and frowned, as | |
lovers of music do when they hear a false note. The two women let go | |
of one another, and then, as if afraid of being too late, seized each | |
other’s hands, kissing them and pulling them away, and again began | |
kissing each other on the face, and then to Prince Andrew’s surprise | |
both began to cry and kissed again. Mademoiselle Bourienne also began to | |
cry. Prince Andrew evidently felt ill at ease, but to the two women | |
it seemed quite natural that they should cry, and apparently it never | |
entered their heads that it could have been otherwise at this meeting. | |
“Ah! my dear!... Ah! Mary!...” they suddenly exclaimed, and then | |
laughed. “I dreamed last night...”—“You were not expecting | |
us?...” “Ah! Mary, you have got thinner?...” “And you have grown | |
stouter!...” | |
“I knew the princess at once,” put in Mademoiselle Bourienne. | |
“And I had no idea!...” exclaimed Princess Mary. “Ah, Andrew, I | |
did not see you.” | |
Prince Andrew and his sister, hand in hand, kissed one another, and | |
he told her she was still the same crybaby as ever. Princess Mary had | |
turned toward her brother, and through her tears the loving, warm, | |
gentle look of her large luminous eyes, very beautiful at that moment, | |
rested on Prince Andrew’s face. | |
The little princess talked incessantly, her short, downy upper lip | |
continually and rapidly touching her rosy nether lip when necessary | |
and drawing up again next moment when her face broke into a smile of | |
glittering teeth and sparkling eyes. She told of an accident they had | |
had on the Spásski Hill which might have been serious for her in her | |
condition, and immediately after that informed them that she had left | |
all her clothes in Petersburg and that heaven knew what she would have | |
to dress in here; and that Andrew had quite changed, and that Kitty | |
Odýntsova had married an old man, and that there was a suitor for Mary, | |
a real one, but that they would talk of that later. Princess Mary was | |
still looking silently at her brother and her beautiful eyes were full | |
of love and sadness. It was plain that she was following a train of | |
thought independent of her sister-in-law’s words. In the midst of a | |
description of the last Petersburg fete she addressed her brother: | |
“So you are really going to the war, Andrew?” she said sighing. | |
Lise sighed too. | |
“Yes, and even tomorrow,” replied her brother. | |
“He is leaving me here, God knows why, when he might have had | |
promotion...” | |
Princess Mary did not listen to the end, but continuing her train of | |
thought turned to her sister-in-law with a tender glance at her figure. | |
“Is it certain?” she said. | |
The face of the little princess changed. She sighed and said: “Yes, | |
quite certain. Ah! it is very dreadful...” | |
Her lip descended. She brought her face close to her sister-in-law’s | |
and unexpectedly again began to cry. | |
“She needs rest,” said Prince Andrew with a frown. “Don’t you, | |
Lise? Take her to your room and I’ll go to Father. How is he? Just the | |
same?” | |
“Yes, just the same. Though I don’t know what your opinion will | |
be,” answered the princess joyfully. | |
“And are the hours the same? And the walks in the avenues? And the | |
lathe?” asked Prince Andrew with a scarcely perceptible smile which | |
showed that, in spite of all his love and respect for his father, he was | |
aware of his weaknesses. | |
“The hours are the same, and the lathe, and also the mathematics and | |
my geometry lessons,” said Princess Mary gleefully, as if her lessons | |
in geometry were among the greatest delights of her life. | |
When the twenty minutes had elapsed and the time had come for the old | |
prince to get up, Tíkhon came to call the young prince to his father. | |
The old man made a departure from his usual routine in honor of his | |
son’s arrival: he gave orders to admit him to his apartments while | |
he dressed for dinner. The old prince always dressed in old-fashioned | |
style, wearing an antique coat and powdered hair; and when Prince Andrew | |
entered his father’s dressing room (not with the contemptuous look and | |
manner he wore in drawing rooms, but with the animated face with which | |
he talked to Pierre), the old man was sitting on a large leather-covered | |
chair, wrapped in a powdering mantle, entrusting his head to Tíkhon. | |
“Ah! here’s the warrior! Wants to vanquish Buonaparte?” said the | |
old man, shaking his powdered head as much as the tail, which Tíkhon | |
was holding fast to plait, would allow. | |
“You at least must tackle him properly, or else if he goes on like | |
this he’ll soon have us, too, for his subjects! How are you?” And he | |
held out his cheek. | |
The old man was in a good temper after his nap before dinner. (He | |
used to say that a nap “after dinner was silver—before dinner, | |
golden.”) He cast happy, sidelong glances at his son from under his | |
thick, bushy eyebrows. Prince Andrew went up and kissed his father on | |
the spot indicated to him. He made no reply on his father’s favorite | |
topic—making fun of the military men of the day, and more particularly | |
of Bonaparte. | |
“Yes, Father, I have come to you and brought my wife who is | |
pregnant,” said Prince Andrew, following every movement of his | |
father’s face with an eager and respectful look. “How is your | |
health?” | |
“Only fools and rakes fall ill, my boy. You know me: I am busy from | |
morning till night and abstemious, so of course I am well.” | |
“Thank God,” said his son smiling. | |
“God has nothing to do with it! Well, go on,” he continued, | |
returning to his hobby; “tell me how the Germans have taught you to | |
fight Bonaparte by this new science you call ‘strategy.’” | |
Prince Andrew smiled. | |
“Give me time to collect my wits, Father,” said he, with a smile | |
that showed that his father’s foibles did not prevent his son from | |
loving and honoring him. “Why, I have not yet had time to settle | |
down!” | |
“Nonsense, nonsense!” cried the old man, shaking his pigtail to | |
see whether it was firmly plaited, and grasping his by the hand. “The | |
house for your wife is ready. Princess Mary will take her there and | |
show her over, and they’ll talk nineteen to the dozen. That’s | |
their woman’s way! I am glad to have her. Sit down and talk. About | |
Mikhelson’s army I understand—Tolstóy ‘s too... a simultaneous | |
expedition.... But what’s the southern army to do? Prussia is | |
neutral... I know that. What about Austria?” said he, rising from his | |
chair and pacing up and down the room followed by Tíkhon, who ran after | |
him, handing him different articles of clothing. “What of Sweden? How | |
will they cross Pomerania?” | |
Prince Andrew, seeing that his father insisted, began—at first | |
reluctantly, but gradually with more and more animation, and from habit | |
changing unconsciously from Russian to French as he went on—to explain | |
the plan of operation for the coming campaign. He explained how an army, | |
ninety thousand strong, was to threaten Prussia so as to bring her out | |
of her neutrality and draw her into the war; how part of that army was | |
to join some Swedish forces at Stralsund; how two hundred and twenty | |
thousand Austrians, with a hundred thousand Russians, were to operate in | |
Italy and on the Rhine; how fifty thousand Russians and as many English | |
were to land at Naples, and how a total force of five hundred thousand | |
men was to attack the French from different sides. The old prince did | |
not evince the least interest during this explanation, but as if he were | |
not listening to it continued to dress while walking about, and three | |
times unexpectedly interrupted. Once he stopped it by shouting: “The | |
white one, the white one!” | |
This meant that Tíkhon was not handing him the waistcoat he wanted. | |
Another time he interrupted, saying: | |
“And will she soon be confined?” and shaking his head reproachfully | |
said: “That’s bad! Go on, go on.” | |
The third interruption came when Prince Andrew was finishing his | |
description. The old man began to sing, in the cracked voice of old age: | |
“Malbrook s’en va-t-en guerre. Dieu sait quand reviendra.” * | |
* “Marlborough is going to the wars; God knows when he’ll | |
return.” | |
His son only smiled. | |
“I don’t say it’s a plan I approve of,” said the son; “I am | |
only telling you what it is. Napoleon has also formed his plan by now, | |
not worse than this one.” | |
“Well, you’ve told me nothing new,” and the old man repeated, | |
meditatively and rapidly: | |
“Dieu sait quand reviendra. Go to the dining room.” | |
CHAPTER XXVII | |
At the appointed hour the prince, powdered and shaven, entered the | |
dining room where his daughter-in-law, Princess Mary, and Mademoiselle | |
Bourienne were already awaiting him together with his architect, who by | |
a strange caprice of his employer’s was admitted to table though the | |
position of that insignificant individual was such as could certainly | |
not have caused him to expect that honor. The prince, who generally kept | |
very strictly to social distinctions and rarely admitted even important | |
government officials to his table, had unexpectedly selected Michael | |
Ivánovich (who always went into a corner to blow his nose on his | |
checked handkerchief) to illustrate the theory that all men are equals, | |
and had more than once impressed on his daughter that Michael Ivánovich | |
was “not a whit worse than you or I.” At dinner the prince usually | |
spoke to the taciturn Michael Ivánovich more often than to anyone else. | |
In the dining room, which like all the rooms in the house was | |
exceedingly lofty, the members of the household and the footmen—one | |
behind each chair—stood waiting for the prince to enter. The head | |
butler, napkin on arm, was scanning the setting of the table, making | |
signs to the footmen, and anxiously glancing from the clock to the door | |
by which the prince was to enter. Prince Andrew was looking at a large | |
gilt frame, new to him, containing the genealogical tree of the Princes | |
Bolkónski, opposite which hung another such frame with a badly painted | |
portrait (evidently by the hand of the artist belonging to the estate) | |
of a ruling prince, in a crown—an alleged descendant of Rúrik and | |
ancestor of the Bolkónskis. Prince Andrew, looking again at that | |
genealogical tree, shook his head, laughing as a man laughs who looks at | |
a portrait so characteristic of the original as to be amusing. | |
“How thoroughly like him that is!” he said to Princess Mary, who had | |
come up to him. | |
Princess Mary looked at her brother in surprise. She did not understand | |
what he was laughing at. Everything her father did inspired her with | |
reverence and was beyond question. | |
“Everyone has his Achilles’ heel,” continued Prince Andrew. | |
“Fancy, with his powerful mind, indulging in such nonsense!” | |
Princess Mary could not understand the boldness of her brother’s | |
criticism and was about to reply, when the expected footsteps were heard | |
coming from the study. The prince walked in quickly and jauntily as was | |
his wont, as if intentionally contrasting the briskness of his manners | |
with the strict formality of his house. At that moment the great clock | |
struck two and another with a shrill tone joined in from the drawing | |
room. The prince stood still; his lively glittering eyes from under | |
their thick, bushy eyebrows sternly scanned all present and rested on | |
the little princess. She felt, as courtiers do when the Tsar enters, the | |
sensation of fear and respect which the old man inspired in all around | |
him. He stroked her hair and then patted her awkwardly on the back of | |
her neck. | |
“I’m glad, glad, to see you,” he said, looking attentively into | |
her eyes, and then quickly went to his place and sat down. “Sit down, | |
sit down! Sit down, Michael Ivánovich!” | |
He indicated a place beside him to his daughter-in-law. A footman moved | |
the chair for her. | |
“Ho, ho!” said the old man, casting his eyes on her rounded figure. | |
“You’ve been in a hurry. That’s bad!” | |
He laughed in his usual dry, cold, unpleasant way, with his lips only | |
and not with his eyes. | |
“You must walk, walk as much as possible, as much as possible,” he | |
said. | |
The little princess did not, or did not wish to, hear his words. She was | |
silent and seemed confused. The prince asked her about her father, and | |
she began to smile and talk. He asked about mutual acquaintances, and | |
she became still more animated and chattered away giving him greetings | |
from various people and retelling the town gossip. | |
“Countess Apráksina, poor thing, has lost her husband and she has | |
cried her eyes out,” she said, growing more and more lively. | |
As she became animated the prince looked at her more and more sternly, | |
and suddenly, as if he had studied her sufficiently and had formed a | |
definite idea of her, he turned away and addressed Michael Ivánovich. | |
“Well, Michael Ivánovich, our Bonaparte will be having a bad time | |
of it. Prince Andrew” (he always spoke thus of his son) “has been | |
telling me what forces are being collected against him! While you and I | |
never thought much of him.” | |
Michael Ivánovich did not at all know when “you and I” had said | |
such things about Bonaparte, but understanding that he was wanted as | |
a peg on which to hang the prince’s favorite topic, he looked | |
inquiringly at the young prince, wondering what would follow. | |
“He is a great tactician!” said the prince to his son, pointing to | |
the architect. | |
And the conversation again turned on the war, on Bonaparte, and the | |
generals and statesmen of the day. The old prince seemed convinced not | |
only that all the men of the day were mere babies who did not know the | |
A B C of war or of politics, and that Bonaparte was an insignificant | |
little Frenchy, successful only because there were no longer any | |
Potëmkins or Suvórovs left to oppose him; but he was also convinced | |
that there were no political difficulties in Europe and no real war, | |
but only a sort of puppet show at which the men of the day were playing, | |
pretending to do something real. Prince Andrew gaily bore with his | |
father’s ridicule of the new men, and drew him on and listened to him | |
with evident pleasure. | |
“The past always seems good,” said he, “but did not Suvórov | |
himself fall into a trap Moreau set him, and from which he did not know | |
how to escape?” | |
“Who told you that? Who?” cried the prince. “Suvórov!” And he | |
jerked away his plate, which Tíkhon briskly caught. “Suvórov!... | |
Consider, Prince Andrew. Two... Frederick and Suvórov; Moreau!... | |
Moreau would have been a prisoner if Suvórov had had a free hand; but | |
he had the Hofs-kriegs-wurst-schnapps-Rath on his hands. It would have | |
puzzled the devil himself! When you get there you’ll find out what | |
those Hofs-kriegs-wurst-Raths are! Suvórov couldn’t manage them so | |
what chance has Michael Kutúzov? No, my dear boy,” he continued, | |
“you and your generals won’t get on against Buonaparte; you’ll | |
have to call in the French, so that birds of a feather may fight | |
together. The German, Pahlen, has been sent to New York in America, to | |
fetch the Frenchman, Moreau,” he said, alluding to the invitation made | |
that year to Moreau to enter the Russian service.... “Wonderful!... | |
Were the Potëmkins, Suvórovs, and Orlóvs Germans? No, lad, either you | |
fellows have all lost your wits, or I have outlived mine. May God help | |
you, but we’ll see what will happen. Buonaparte has become a great | |
commander among them! Hm!...” | |
“I don’t at all say that all the plans are good,” said Prince | |
Andrew, “I am only surprised at your opinion of Bonaparte. You | |
may laugh as much as you like, but all the same Bonaparte is a great | |
general!” | |
“Michael Ivánovich!” cried the old prince to the architect who, | |
busy with his roast meat, hoped he had been forgotten: “Didn’t | |
I tell you Buonaparte was a great tactician? Here, he says the same | |
thing.” | |
“To be sure, your excellency,” replied the architect. | |
The prince again laughed his frigid laugh. | |
“Buonaparte was born with a silver spoon in his mouth. He has got | |
splendid soldiers. Besides he began by attacking Germans. And only | |
idlers have failed to beat the Germans. Since the world began everybody | |
has beaten the Germans. They beat no one—except one another. He made | |
his reputation fighting them.” | |
And the prince began explaining all the blunders which, according to | |
him, Bonaparte had made in his campaigns and even in politics. His | |
son made no rejoinder, but it was evident that whatever arguments were | |
presented he was as little able as his father to change his opinion. He | |
listened, refraining from a reply, and involuntarily wondered how this | |
old man, living alone in the country for so many years, could know and | |
discuss so minutely and acutely all the recent European military and | |
political events. | |
“You think I’m an old man and don’t understand the present state | |
of affairs?” concluded his father. “But it troubles me. I don’t | |
sleep at night. Come now, where has this great commander of yours shown | |
his skill?” he concluded. | |
“That would take too long to tell,” answered the son. | |
“Well, then go off to your Buonaparte! Mademoiselle Bourienne, | |
here’s another admirer of that powder-monkey emperor of yours,” he | |
exclaimed in excellent French. | |
“You know, Prince, I am not a Bonapartist!” | |
“Dieu sait quand reviendra.” hummed the prince out of tune and, with | |
a laugh still more so, he quitted the table. | |
The little princess during the whole discussion and the rest of | |
the dinner sat silent, glancing with a frightened look now at her | |
father-in-law and now at Princess Mary. When they left the table she | |
took her sister-in-law’s arm and drew her into another room. | |
“What a clever man your father is,” said she; “perhaps that is why | |
I am afraid of him.” | |
“Oh, he is so kind!” answered Princess Mary. | |
CHAPTER XXVIII | |
Prince Andrew was to leave next evening. The old prince, not altering | |
his routine, retired as usual after dinner. The little princess was in | |
her sister-in-law’s room. Prince Andrew in a traveling coat without | |
epaulettes had been packing with his valet in the rooms assigned to him. | |
After inspecting the carriage himself and seeing the trunks put in, he | |
ordered the horses to be harnessed. Only those things he always kept | |
with him remained in his room; a small box, a large canteen fitted | |
with silver plate, two Turkish pistols and a saber—a present from | |
his father who had brought it from the siege of Ochákov. All these | |
traveling effects of Prince Andrew’s were in very good order: new, | |
clean, and in cloth covers carefully tied with tapes. | |
When starting on a journey or changing their mode of life, men capable | |
of reflection are generally in a serious frame of mind. At such moments | |
one reviews the past and plans for the future. Prince Andrew’s face | |
looked very thoughtful and tender. With his hands behind him he paced | |
briskly from corner to corner of the room, looking straight before him | |
and thoughtfully shaking his head. Did he fear going to the war, or was | |
he sad at leaving his wife?—perhaps both, but evidently he did not | |
wish to be seen in that mood, for hearing footsteps in the passage he | |
hurriedly unclasped his hands, stopped at a table as if tying the | |
cover of the small box, and assumed his usual tranquil and impenetrable | |
expression. It was the heavy tread of Princess Mary that he heard. | |
“I hear you have given orders to harness,” she cried, panting (she | |
had apparently been running), “and I did so wish to have another talk | |
with you alone! God knows how long we may again be parted. You are not | |
angry with me for coming? You have changed so, Andrúsha,” she added, | |
as if to explain such a question. | |
She smiled as she uttered his pet name, “Andrúsha.” It was | |
obviously strange to her to think that this stern handsome man should be | |
Andrúsha—the slender mischievous boy who had been her playfellow in | |
childhood. | |
“And where is Lise?” he asked, answering her question only by a | |
smile. | |
“She was so tired that she has fallen asleep on the sofa in my room. | |
Oh, Andrew! What a treasure of a wife you have,” said she, sitting | |
down on the sofa, facing her brother. “She is quite a child: such a | |
dear, merry child. I have grown so fond of her.” | |
Prince Andrew was silent, but the princess noticed the ironical and | |
contemptuous look that showed itself on his face. | |
“One must be indulgent to little weaknesses; who is free from them, | |
Andrew? Don’t forget that she has grown up and been educated in | |
society, and so her position now is not a rosy one. We should enter into | |
everyone’s situation. Tout comprendre, c’est tout pardonner. * Think | |
what it must be for her, poor thing, after what she has been used to, | |
to be parted from her husband and be left alone in the country, in her | |
condition! It’s very hard.” | |
* To understand all is to forgive all. | |
Prince Andrew smiled as he looked at his sister, as we smile at those we | |
think we thoroughly understand. | |
“You live in the country and don’t think the life terrible,” he | |
replied. | |
“I... that’s different. Why speak of me? I don’t want any other | |
life, and can’t, for I know no other. But think, Andrew: for a young | |
society woman to be buried in the country during the best years of her | |
life, all alone—for Papa is always busy, and I... well, you know what | |
poor resources I have for entertaining a woman used to the best society. | |
There is only Mademoiselle Bourienne....” | |
“I don’t like your Mademoiselle Bourienne at all,” said Prince | |
Andrew. | |
“No? She is very nice and kind and, above all, she’s much to be | |
pitied. She has no one, no one. To tell the truth, I don’t need her, | |
and she’s even in my way. You know I always was a savage, and now am | |
even more so. I like being alone.... Father likes her very much. She and | |
Michael Ivánovich are the two people to whom he is always gentle and | |
kind, because he has been a benefactor to them both. As Sterne says: | |
‘We don’t love people so much for the good they have done us, as | |
for the good we have done them.’ Father took her when she was homeless | |
after losing her own father. She is very good-natured, and my father | |
likes her way of reading. She reads to him in the evenings and reads | |
splendidly.” | |
“To be quite frank, Mary, I expect Father’s character sometimes | |
makes things trying for you, doesn’t it?” Prince Andrew asked | |
suddenly. | |
Princess Mary was first surprised and then aghast at this question. | |
“For me? For me?... Trying for me!...” said she. | |
“He always was rather harsh; and now I should think he’s getting | |
very trying,” said Prince Andrew, apparently speaking lightly of their | |
father in order to puzzle or test his sister. | |
“You are good in every way, Andrew, but you have a kind of | |
intellectual pride,” said the princess, following the train of her own | |
thoughts rather than the trend of the conversation—“and that’s a | |
great sin. How can one judge Father? But even if one might, what feeling | |
except veneration could such a man as my father evoke? And I am so | |
contented and happy with him. I only wish you were all as happy as I | |
am.” | |
Her brother shook his head incredulously. | |
“The only thing that is hard for me... I will tell you the truth, | |
Andrew... is Father’s way of treating religious subjects. I don’t | |
understand how a man of his immense intellect can fail to see what is | |
as clear as day, and can go so far astray. That is the only thing | |
that makes me unhappy. But even in this I can see lately a shade of | |
improvement. His satire has been less bitter of late, and there was a | |
monk he received and had a long talk with.” | |
“Ah! my dear, I am afraid you and your monk are wasting your | |
powder,” said Prince Andrew banteringly yet tenderly. | |
“Ah! mon ami, I only pray, and hope that God will hear me. | |
Andrew...” she said timidly after a moment’s silence, “I have a | |
great favor to ask of you.” | |
“What is it, dear?” | |
“No—promise that you will not refuse! It will give you no trouble | |
and is nothing unworthy of you, but it will comfort me. Promise, | |
Andrúsha!...” said she, putting her hand in her reticule but not yet | |
taking out what she was holding inside it, as if what she held were | |
the subject of her request and must not be shown before the request was | |
granted. | |
She looked timidly at her brother. | |
“Even if it were a great deal of trouble...” answered Prince Andrew, | |
as if guessing what it was about. | |
“Think what you please! I know you are just like Father. Think as | |
you please, but do this for my sake! Please do! Father’s father, our | |
grandfather, wore it in all his wars.” (She still did not take out | |
what she was holding in her reticule.) “So you promise?” | |
“Of course. What is it?” | |
“Andrew, I bless you with this icon and you must promise me you will | |
never take it off. Do you promise?” | |
“If it does not weigh a hundredweight and won’t break my neck... | |
To please you...” said Prince Andrew. But immediately, noticing | |
the pained expression his joke had brought to his sister’s face, he | |
repented and added: “I am glad; really, dear, I am very glad.” | |
“Against your will He will save and have mercy on you and bring you | |
to Himself, for in Him alone is truth and peace,” said she in a voice | |
trembling with emotion, solemnly holding up in both hands before her | |
brother a small, oval, antique, dark-faced icon of the Saviour in a gold | |
setting, on a finely wrought silver chain. | |
She crossed herself, kissed the icon, and handed it to Andrew. | |
“Please, Andrew, for my sake!...” | |
Rays of gentle light shone from her large, timid eyes. Those eyes lit | |
up the whole of her thin, sickly face and made it beautiful. Her brother | |
would have taken the icon, but she stopped him. Andrew understood, | |
crossed himself and kissed the icon. There was a look of tenderness, for | |
he was touched, but also a gleam of irony on his face. | |
“Thank you, my dear.” She kissed him on the forehead and sat down | |
again on the sofa. They were silent for a while. | |
“As I was saying to you, Andrew, be kind and generous as you always | |
used to be. Don’t judge Lise harshly,” she began. “She is so | |
sweet, so good-natured, and her position now is a very hard one.” | |
“I do not think I have complained of my wife to you, Másha, or blamed | |
her. Why do you say all this to me?” | |
Red patches appeared on Princess Mary’s face and she was silent as if | |
she felt guilty. | |
“I have said nothing to you, but you have already been talked to. And | |
I am sorry for that,” he went on. | |
The patches grew deeper on her forehead, neck, and cheeks. She tried to | |
say something but could not. Her brother had guessed right: the little | |
princess had been crying after dinner and had spoken of her forebodings | |
about her confinement, and how she dreaded it, and had complained of her | |
fate, her father-in-law, and her husband. After crying she had fallen | |
asleep. Prince Andrew felt sorry for his sister. | |
“Know this, Másha: I can’t reproach, have not reproached, and never | |
shall reproach my wife with anything, and I cannot reproach myself | |
with anything in regard to her; and that always will be so in whatever | |
circumstances I may be placed. But if you want to know the truth... if | |
you want to know whether I am happy? No! Is she happy? No! But why this | |
is so I don’t know...” | |
As he said this he rose, went to his sister, and, stooping, kissed | |
her forehead. His fine eyes lit up with a thoughtful, kindly, and | |
unaccustomed brightness, but he was looking not at his sister but over | |
her head toward the darkness of the open doorway. | |
“Let us go to her, I must say good-by. Or—go and wake and I’ll | |
come in a moment. Petrúshka!” he called to his valet: “Come here, | |
take these away. Put this on the seat and this to the right.” | |
Princess Mary rose and moved to the door, then stopped and said: | |
“Andrew, if you had faith you would have turned to God and asked Him | |
to give you the love you do not feel, and your prayer would have been | |
answered.” | |
“Well, maybe!” said Prince Andrew. “Go, Másha; I’ll come | |
immediately.” | |
On the way to his sister’s room, in the passage which connected one | |
wing with the other, Prince Andrew met Mademoiselle Bourienne smiling | |
sweetly. It was the third time that day that, with an ecstatic and | |
artless smile, she had met him in secluded passages. | |
“Oh! I thought you were in your room,” she said, for some reason | |
blushing and dropping her eyes. | |
Prince Andrew looked sternly at her and an expression of anger suddenly | |
came over his face. He said nothing to her but looked at her forehead | |
and hair, without looking at her eyes, with such contempt that the | |
Frenchwoman blushed and went away without a word. When he reached his | |
sister’s room his wife was already awake and her merry voice, hurrying | |
one word after another, came through the open door. She was speaking as | |
usual in French, and as if after long self-restraint she wished to make | |
up for lost time. | |
“No, but imagine the old Countess Zúbova, with false curls and her | |
mouth full of false teeth, as if she were trying to cheat old age.... | |
Ha, ha, ha! Mary!” | |
This very sentence about Countess Zúbova and this same laugh Prince | |
Andrew had already heard from his wife in the presence of others some | |
five times. He entered the room softly. The little princess, plump and | |
rosy, was sitting in an easy chair with her work in her hands, talking | |
incessantly, repeating Petersburg reminiscences and even phrases. Prince | |
Andrew came up, stroked her hair, and asked if she felt rested after | |
their journey. She answered him and continued her chatter. | |
The coach with six horses was waiting at the porch. It was an autumn | |
night, so dark that the coachman could not see the carriage pole. | |
Servants with lanterns were bustling about in the porch. The immense | |
house was brilliant with lights shining through its lofty windows. The | |
domestic serfs were crowding in the hall, waiting to bid good-by to | |
the young prince. The members of the household were all gathered in the | |
reception hall: Michael Ivánovich, Mademoiselle Bourienne, Princess | |
Mary, and the little princess. Prince Andrew had been called to his | |
father’s study as the latter wished to say good-by to him alone. All | |
were waiting for them to come out. | |
When Prince Andrew entered the study the old man in his old-age | |
spectacles and white dressing gown, in which he received no one but his | |
son, sat at the table writing. He glanced round. | |
“Going?” And he went on writing. | |
“I’ve come to say good-by.” | |
“Kiss me here,” and he touched his cheek: “Thanks, thanks!” | |
“What do you thank me for?” | |
“For not dilly-dallying and not hanging to a woman’s apron strings. | |
The Service before everything. Thanks, thanks!” And he went on | |
writing, so that his quill spluttered and squeaked. “If you have | |
anything to say, say it. These two things can be done together,” he | |
added. | |
“About my wife... I am ashamed as it is to leave her on your | |
hands....” | |
“Why talk nonsense? Say what you want.” | |
“When her confinement is due, send to Moscow for an accoucheur.... Let | |
him be here....” | |
The old prince stopped writing and, as if not understanding, fixed his | |
stern eyes on his son. | |
“I know that no one can help if nature does not do her work,” said | |
Prince Andrew, evidently confused. “I know that out of a million | |
cases only one goes wrong, but it is her fancy and mine. They have been | |
telling her things. She has had a dream and is frightened.” | |
“Hm... Hm...” muttered the old prince to himself, finishing what he | |
was writing. “I’ll do it.” | |
He signed with a flourish and suddenly turning to his son began to | |
laugh. | |
“It’s a bad business, eh?” | |
“What is bad, Father?” | |
“The wife!” said the old prince, briefly and significantly. | |
“I don’t understand!” said Prince Andrew. | |
“No, it can’t be helped, lad,” said the prince. “They’re | |
all like that; one can’t unmarry. Don’t be afraid; I won’t tell | |
anyone, but you know it yourself.” | |
He seized his son by the hand with small bony fingers, shook it, looked | |
straight into his son’s face with keen eyes which seemed to see | |
through him, and again laughed his frigid laugh. | |
The son sighed, thus admitting that his father had understood him. The | |
old man continued to fold and seal his letter, snatching up and throwing | |
down the wax, the seal, and the paper, with his accustomed rapidity. | |
“What’s to be done? She’s pretty! I will do everything. Make your | |
mind easy,” said he in abrupt sentences while sealing his letter. | |
Andrew did not speak; he was both pleased and displeased that his father | |
understood him. The old man got up and gave the letter to his son. | |
“Listen!” said he; “don’t worry about your wife: what can be | |
done shall be. Now listen! Give this letter to Michael Ilariónovich. * | |
I have written that he should make use of you in proper places and not | |
keep you long as an adjutant: a bad position! Tell him I remember | |
and like him. Write and tell me how he receives you. If he is all | |
right—serve him. Nicholas Bolkónski’s son need not serve under | |
anyone if he is in disfavor. Now come here.” | |
*Kutúzov. | |
He spoke so rapidly that he did not finish half his words, but his son | |
was accustomed to understand him. He led him to the desk, raised the | |
lid, drew out a drawer, and took out an exercise book filled with his | |
bold, tall, close handwriting. | |
“I shall probably die before you. So remember, these are my memoirs; | |
hand them to the Emperor after my death. Now here is a Lombard bond | |
and a letter; it is a premium for the man who writes a history of | |
Suvórov’s wars. Send it to the Academy. Here are some jottings for | |
you to read when I am gone. You will find them useful.” | |
Andrew did not tell his father that he would no doubt live a long time | |
yet. He felt that he must not say it. | |
“I will do it all, Father,” he said. | |
“Well, now, good-by!” He gave his son his hand to kiss, and embraced | |
him. “Remember this, Prince Andrew, if they kill you it will hurt me, | |
your old father...” he paused unexpectedly, and then in a querulous | |
voice suddenly shrieked: “but if I hear that you have not behaved like | |
a son of Nicholas Bolkónski, I shall be ashamed!” | |
“You need not have said that to me, Father,” said the son with a | |
smile. | |
The old man was silent. | |
“I also wanted to ask you,” continued Prince Andrew, “if I’m | |
killed and if I have a son, do not let him be taken away from you—as I | |
said yesterday... let him grow up with you.... Please.” | |
“Not let the wife have him?” said the old man, and laughed. | |
They stood silent, facing one another. The old man’s sharp eyes were | |
fixed straight on his son’s. Something twitched in the lower part of | |
the old prince’s face. | |
“We’ve said good-by. Go!” he suddenly shouted in a loud, angry | |
voice, opening his door. | |
“What is it? What?” asked both princesses when they saw for a moment | |
at the door Prince Andrew and the figure of the old man in a white | |
dressing gown, spectacled and wigless, shouting in an angry voice. | |
Prince Andrew sighed and made no reply. | |
“Well!” he said, turning to his wife. | |
And this “Well!” sounded coldly ironic, as if he were saying: “Now | |
go through your performance.” | |
“Andrew, already!” said the little princess, turning pale and | |
looking with dismay at her husband. | |
He embraced her. She screamed and fell unconscious on his shoulder. | |
He cautiously released the shoulder she leaned on, looked into her face, | |
and carefully placed her in an easy chair. | |
“Adieu, Mary,” said he gently to his sister, taking her by the hand | |
and kissing her, and then he left the room with rapid steps. | |
The little princess lay in the armchair, Mademoiselle Bourienne chafing | |
her temples. Princess Mary, supporting her sister-in-law, still looked | |
with her beautiful eyes full of tears at the door through which Prince | |
Andrew had gone and made the sign of the cross in his direction. From | |
the study, like pistol shots, came the frequent sound of the old man | |
angrily blowing his nose. Hardly had Prince Andrew gone when the study | |
door opened quickly and the stern figure of the old man in the white | |
dressing gown looked out. | |
“Gone? That’s all right!” said he; and looking angrily at the | |
unconscious little princess, he shook his head reprovingly and slammed | |
the door. | |
BOOK TWO: 1805 | |
CHAPTER I | |
In October, 1805, a Russian army was occupying the villages and towns of | |
the Archduchy of Austria, and yet other regiments freshly arriving from | |
Russia were settling near the fortress of Braunau and burdening the | |
inhabitants on whom they were quartered. Braunau was the headquarters of | |
the commander in chief, Kutúzov. | |
On October 11, 1805, one of the infantry regiments that had just reached | |
Braunau had halted half a mile from the town, waiting to be inspected | |
by the commander in chief. Despite the un-Russian appearance of the | |
locality and surroundings—fruit gardens, stone fences, tiled roofs, | |
and hills in the distance—and despite the fact that the inhabitants | |
(who gazed with curiosity at the soldiers) were not Russians, the | |
regiment had just the appearance of any Russian regiment preparing for | |
an inspection anywhere in the heart of Russia. | |
On the evening of the last day’s march an order had been received that | |
the commander in chief would inspect the regiment on the march. Though | |
the words of the order were not clear to the regimental commander, and | |
the question arose whether the troops were to be in marching order or | |
not, it was decided at a consultation between the battalion commanders | |
to present the regiment in parade order, on the principle that it is | |
always better to “bow too low than not bow low enough.” So the | |
soldiers, after a twenty-mile march, were kept mending and cleaning all | |
night long without closing their eyes, while the adjutants and | |
company commanders calculated and reckoned, and by morning the | |
regiment—instead of the straggling, disorderly crowd it had been on | |
its last march the day before—presented a well-ordered array of two | |
thousand men each of whom knew his place and his duty, had every button | |
and every strap in place, and shone with cleanliness. And not only | |
externally was all in order, but had it pleased the commander in chief | |
to look under the uniforms he would have found on every man a clean | |
shirt, and in every knapsack the appointed number of articles, “awl, | |
soap, and all,” as the soldiers say. There was only one circumstance | |
concerning which no one could be at ease. It was the state of the | |
soldiers’ boots. More than half the men’s boots were in holes. But | |
this defect was not due to any fault of the regimental commander, for | |
in spite of repeated demands boots had not been issued by the Austrian | |
commissariat, and the regiment had marched some seven hundred miles. | |
The commander of the regiment was an elderly, choleric, stout, and | |
thick-set general with grizzled eyebrows and whiskers, and wider from | |
chest to back than across the shoulders. He had on a brand-new uniform | |
showing the creases where it had been folded and thick gold epaulettes | |
which seemed to stand rather than lie down on his massive shoulders. He | |
had the air of a man happily performing one of the most solemn duties of | |
his life. He walked about in front of the line and at every step pulled | |
himself up, slightly arching his back. It was plain that the commander | |
admired his regiment, rejoiced in it, and that his whole mind was | |
engrossed by it, yet his strut seemed to indicate that, besides military | |
matters, social interests and the fair sex occupied no small part of his | |
thoughts. | |
“Well, Michael Mítrich, sir?” he said, addressing one of the | |
battalion commanders who smilingly pressed forward (it was plain that | |
they both felt happy). “We had our hands full last night. However, I | |
think the regiment is not a bad one, eh?” | |
The battalion commander perceived the jovial irony and laughed. | |
“It would not be turned off the field even on the Tsarítsin | |
Meadow.” | |
“What?” asked the commander. | |
At that moment, on the road from the town on which signalers had been | |
posted, two men appeared on horse back. They were an aide-de-camp | |
followed by a Cossack. | |
The aide-de-camp was sent to confirm the order which had not been | |
clearly worded the day before, namely, that the commander in chief | |
wished to see the regiment just in the state in which it had been on | |
the march: in their greatcoats, and packs, and without any preparation | |
whatever. | |
A member of the Hofkriegsrath from Vienna had come to Kutúzov the day | |
before with proposals and demands for him to join up with the army of | |
the Archduke Ferdinand and Mack, and Kutúzov, not considering this | |
junction advisable, meant, among other arguments in support of his view, | |
to show the Austrian general the wretched state in which the troops | |
arrived from Russia. With this object he intended to meet the regiment; | |
so the worse the condition it was in, the better pleased the commander | |
in chief would be. Though the aide-de-camp did not know these | |
circumstances, he nevertheless delivered the definite order that the | |
men should be in their greatcoats and in marching order, and that the | |
commander in chief would otherwise be dissatisfied. On hearing this the | |
regimental commander hung his head, silently shrugged his shoulders, and | |
spread out his arms with a choleric gesture. | |
“A fine mess we’ve made of it!” he remarked. | |
“There now! Didn’t I tell you, Michael Mítrich, that if it was said | |
‘on the march’ it meant in greatcoats?” said he reproachfully to | |
the battalion commander. “Oh, my God!” he added, stepping resolutely | |
forward. “Company commanders!” he shouted in a voice accustomed to | |
command. “Sergeants major!... How soon will he be here?” he asked | |
the aide-de-camp with a respectful politeness evidently relating to the | |
personage he was referring to. | |
“In an hour’s time, I should say.” | |
“Shall we have time to change clothes?” | |
“I don’t know, General....” | |
The regimental commander, going up to the line himself, ordered the | |
soldiers to change into their greatcoats. The company commanders ran off | |
to their companies, the sergeants major began bustling (the greatcoats | |
were not in very good condition), and instantly the squares that had up | |
to then been in regular order and silent began to sway and stretch and | |
hum with voices. On all sides soldiers were running to and fro, throwing | |
up their knapsacks with a jerk of their shoulders and pulling the straps | |
over their heads, unstrapping their overcoats and drawing the sleeves on | |
with upraised arms. | |
In half an hour all was again in order, only the squares had become gray | |
instead of black. The regimental commander walked with his jerky steps | |
to the front of the regiment and examined it from a distance. | |
“Whatever is this? This!” he shouted and stood still. “Commander | |
of the third company!” | |
“Commander of the third company wanted by the general!... commander to | |
the general... third company to the commander.” The words passed along | |
the lines and an adjutant ran to look for the missing officer. | |
When the eager but misrepeated words had reached their destination in | |
a cry of: “The general to the third company,” the missing officer | |
appeared from behind his company and, though he was a middle-aged man | |
and not in the habit of running, trotted awkwardly stumbling on his | |
toes toward the general. The captain’s face showed the uneasiness of | |
a schoolboy who is told to repeat a lesson he has not learned. Spots | |
appeared on his nose, the redness of which was evidently due to | |
intemperance, and his mouth twitched nervously. The general looked the | |
captain up and down as he came up panting, slackening his pace as he | |
approached. | |
“You will soon be dressing your men in petticoats! What is this?” | |
shouted the regimental commander, thrusting forward his jaw and pointing | |
at a soldier in the ranks of the third company in a greatcoat of bluish | |
cloth, which contrasted with the others. “What have you been after? | |
The commander in chief is expected and you leave your place? Eh? I’ll | |
teach you to dress the men in fancy coats for a parade.... Eh...?” | |
The commander of the company, with his eyes fixed on his superior, | |
pressed two fingers more and more rigidly to his cap, as if in this | |
pressure lay his only hope of salvation. | |
“Well, why don’t you speak? Whom have you got there dressed up as a | |
Hungarian?” said the commander with an austere gibe. | |
“Your excellency...” | |
“Well, your excellency, what? Your excellency! But what about your | |
excellency?... nobody knows.” | |
“Your excellency, it’s the officer Dólokhov, who has been reduced | |
to the ranks,” said the captain softly. | |
“Well? Has he been degraded into a field marshal, or into a soldier? | |
If a soldier, he should be dressed in regulation uniform like the | |
others.” | |
“Your excellency, you gave him leave yourself, on the march.” | |
“Gave him leave? Leave? That’s just like you young men,” said the | |
regimental commander cooling down a little. “Leave indeed.... One says | |
a word to you and you... What?” he added with renewed irritation, “I | |
beg you to dress your men decently.” | |
And the commander, turning to look at the adjutant, directed his jerky | |
steps down the line. He was evidently pleased at his own display of | |
anger and walking up to the regiment wished to find a further excuse for | |
wrath. Having snapped at an officer for an unpolished badge, at another | |
because his line was not straight, he reached the third company. | |
“H-o-o-w are you standing? Where’s your leg? Your leg?” shouted | |
the commander with a tone of suffering in his voice, while there were | |
still five men between him and Dólokhov with his bluish-gray uniform. | |
Dólokhov slowly straightened his bent knee, looking straight with his | |
clear, insolent eyes in the general’s face. | |
“Why a blue coat? Off with it... Sergeant major! Change his coat... | |
the ras...” he did not finish. | |
“General, I must obey orders, but I am not bound to endure...” | |
Dólokhov hurriedly interrupted. | |
“No talking in the ranks!... No talking, no talking!” | |
“Not bound to endure insults,” Dólokhov concluded in loud, ringing | |
tones. | |
The eyes of the general and the soldier met. The general became silent, | |
angrily pulling down his tight scarf. | |
“I request you to have the goodness to change your coat,” he said as | |
he turned away. | |
CHAPTER II | |
“He’s coming!” shouted the signaler at that moment. | |
The regimental commander, flushing, ran to his horse, seized the stirrup | |
with trembling hands, threw his body across the saddle, righted himself, | |
drew his saber, and with a happy and resolute countenance, opening | |
his mouth awry, prepared to shout. The regiment fluttered like a bird | |
preening its plumage and became motionless. | |
“Att-ention!” shouted the regimental commander in a soul-shaking | |
voice which expressed joy for himself, severity for the regiment, and | |
welcome for the approaching chief. | |
Along the broad country road, edged on both sides by trees, came a high, | |
light blue Viennese calèche, slightly creaking on its springs and drawn | |
by six horses at a smart trot. Behind the calèche galloped the suite | |
and a convoy of Croats. Beside Kutúzov sat an Austrian general, in | |
a white uniform that looked strange among the Russian black ones. The | |
calèche stopped in front of the regiment. Kutúzov and the Austrian | |
general were talking in low voices and Kutúzov smiled slightly as | |
treading heavily he stepped down from the carriage just as if those two | |
thousand men breathlessly gazing at him and the regimental commander did | |
not exist. | |
The word of command rang out, and again the regiment quivered, as with a | |
jingling sound it presented arms. Then amidst a dead silence the | |
feeble voice of the commander in chief was heard. The regiment roared, | |
“Health to your ex... len... len... lency!” and again all became | |
silent. At first Kutúzov stood still while the regiment moved; then he | |
and the general in white, accompanied by the suite, walked between the | |
ranks. | |
From the way the regimental commander saluted the commander in chief and | |
devoured him with his eyes, drawing himself up obsequiously, and from | |
the way he walked through the ranks behind the generals, bending forward | |
and hardly able to restrain his jerky movements, and from the way he | |
darted forward at every word or gesture of the commander in chief, | |
it was evident that he performed his duty as a subordinate with even | |
greater zeal than his duty as a commander. Thanks to the strictness and | |
assiduity of its commander the regiment, in comparison with others that | |
had reached Braunau at the same time, was in splendid condition. There | |
were only 217 sick and stragglers. Everything was in good order except | |
the boots. | |
Kutúzov walked through the ranks, sometimes stopping to say a few | |
friendly words to officers he had known in the Turkish war, sometimes | |
also to the soldiers. Looking at their boots he several times shook his | |
head sadly, pointing them out to the Austrian general with an expression | |
which seemed to say that he was not blaming anyone, but could not help | |
noticing what a bad state of things it was. The regimental commander | |
ran forward on each such occasion, fearing to miss a single word of the | |
commander in chief’s regarding the regiment. Behind Kutúzov, at a | |
distance that allowed every softly spoken word to be heard, followed | |
some twenty men of his suite. These gentlemen talked among themselves | |
and sometimes laughed. Nearest of all to the commander in chief walked | |
a handsome adjutant. This was Prince Bolkónski. Beside him was his | |
comrade Nesvítski, a tall staff officer, extremely stout, with a | |
kindly, smiling, handsome face and moist eyes. Nesvítski could hardly | |
keep from laughter provoked by a swarthy hussar officer who walked | |
beside him. This hussar, with a grave face and without a smile or a | |
change in the expression of his fixed eyes, watched the regimental | |
commander’s back and mimicked his every movement. Each time the | |
commander started and bent forward, the hussar started and bent forward | |
in exactly the same manner. Nesvítski laughed and nudged the others to | |
make them look at the wag. | |
Kutúzov walked slowly and languidly past thousands of eyes which were | |
starting from their sockets to watch their chief. On reaching the | |
third company he suddenly stopped. His suite, not having expected this, | |
involuntarily came closer to him. | |
“Ah, Timókhin!” said he, recognizing the red-nosed captain who had | |
been reprimanded on account of the blue greatcoat. | |
One would have thought it impossible for a man to stretch himself | |
more than Timókhin had done when he was reprimanded by the regimental | |
commander, but now that the commander in chief addressed him he drew | |
himself up to such an extent that it seemed he could not have sustained | |
it had the commander in chief continued to look at him, and so Kutúzov, | |
who evidently understood his case and wished him nothing but good, | |
quickly turned away, a scarcely perceptible smile flitting over his | |
scarred and puffy face. | |
“Another Ismail comrade,” said he. “A brave officer! Are you | |
satisfied with him?” he asked the regimental commander. | |
And the latter—unconscious that he was being reflected in the hussar | |
officer as in a looking glass—started, moved forward, and answered: | |
“Highly satisfied, your excellency!” | |
“We all have our weaknesses,” said Kutúzov smiling and walking away | |
from him. “He used to have a predilection for Bacchus.” | |
The regimental commander was afraid he might be blamed for this and did | |
not answer. The hussar at that moment noticed the face of the red-nosed | |
captain and his drawn-in stomach, and mimicked his expression and pose | |
with such exactitude that Nesvítski could not help laughing. Kutúzov | |
turned round. The officer evidently had complete control of his face, | |
and while Kutúzov was turning managed to make a grimace and then assume | |
a most serious, deferential, and innocent expression. | |
The third company was the last, and Kutúzov pondered, apparently trying | |
to recollect something. Prince Andrew stepped forward from among the | |
suite and said in French: | |
“You told me to remind you of the officer Dólokhov, reduced to the | |
ranks in this regiment.” | |
“Where is Dólokhov?” asked Kutúzov. | |
Dólokhov, who had already changed into a soldier’s gray greatcoat, | |
did not wait to be called. The shapely figure of the fair-haired | |
soldier, with his clear blue eyes, stepped forward from the ranks, went | |
up to the commander in chief, and presented arms. | |
“Have you a complaint to make?” Kutúzov asked with a slight frown. | |
“This is Dólokhov,” said Prince Andrew. | |
“Ah!” said Kutúzov. “I hope this will be a lesson to you. Do your | |
duty. The Emperor is gracious, and I shan’t forget you if you deserve | |
well.” | |
The clear blue eyes looked at the commander in chief just as boldly as | |
they had looked at the regimental commander, seeming by their expression | |
to tear open the veil of convention that separates a commander in chief | |
so widely from a private. | |
“One thing I ask of your excellency,” Dólokhov said in his firm, | |
ringing, deliberate voice. “I ask an opportunity to atone for my fault | |
and prove my devotion to His Majesty the Emperor and to Russia!” | |
Kutúzov turned away. The same smile of the eyes with which he had | |
turned from Captain Timókhin again flitted over his face. He turned | |
away with a grimace as if to say that everything Dólokhov had said to | |
him and everything he could say had long been known to him, that he was | |
weary of it and it was not at all what he wanted. He turned away and | |
went to the carriage. | |
The regiment broke up into companies, which went to their appointed | |
quarters near Braunau, where they hoped to receive boots and clothes and | |
to rest after their hard marches. | |
“You won’t bear me a grudge, Prokhór Ignátych?” said the | |
regimental commander, overtaking the third company on its way to its | |
quarters and riding up to Captain Timókhin who was walking in front. | |
(The regimental commander’s face now that the inspection was happily | |
over beamed with irrepressible delight.) “It’s in the Emperor’s | |
service... it can’t be helped... one is sometimes a bit hasty on | |
parade... I am the first to apologize, you know me!... He was very | |
pleased!” And he held out his hand to the captain. | |
“Don’t mention it, General, as if I’d be so bold!” replied the | |
captain, his nose growing redder as he gave a smile which showed where | |
two front teeth were missing that had been knocked out by the butt end | |
of a gun at Ismail. | |
“And tell Mr. Dólokhov that I won’t forget him—he may be quite | |
easy. And tell me, please—I’ve been meaning to ask—how is he | |
behaving himself, and in general...” | |
“As far as the service goes he is quite punctilious, your excellency; | |
but his character...” said Timókhin. | |
“And what about his character?” asked the regimental commander. | |
“It’s different on different days,” answered the captain. “One | |
day he is sensible, well educated, and good-natured, and the next he’s | |
a wild beast.... In Poland, if you please, he nearly killed a Jew.” | |
“Oh, well, well!” remarked the regimental commander. “Still, one | |
must have pity on a young man in misfortune. You know he has important | |
connections... Well, then, you just...” | |
“I will, your excellency,” said Timókhin, showing by his smile that | |
he understood his commander’s wish. | |
“Well, of course, of course!” | |
The regimental commander sought out Dólokhov in the ranks and, reining | |
in his horse, said to him: | |
“After the next affair... epaulettes.” | |
Dólokhov looked round but did not say anything, nor did the mocking | |
smile on his lips change. | |
“Well, that’s all right,” continued the regimental commander. “A | |
cup of vodka for the men from me,” he added so that the soldiers | |
could hear. “I thank you all! God be praised!” and he rode past that | |
company and overtook the next one. | |
“Well, he’s really a good fellow, one can serve under him,” said | |
Timókhin to the subaltern beside him. | |
“In a word, a hearty one...” said the subaltern, laughing (the | |
regimental commander was nicknamed King of Hearts). | |
The cheerful mood of their officers after the inspection infected the | |
soldiers. The company marched on gaily. The soldiers’ voices could be | |
heard on every side. | |
“And they said Kutúzov was blind of one eye?” | |
“And so he is! Quite blind!” | |
“No, friend, he is sharper-eyed than you are. Boots and leg bands... | |
he noticed everything...” | |
“When he looked at my feet, friend... well, thinks I...” | |
“And that other one with him, the Austrian, looked as if he were | |
smeared with chalk—as white as flour! I suppose they polish him up as | |
they do the guns.” | |
“I say, Fédeshon!... Did he say when the battles are to begin? You | |
were near him. Everybody said that Buonaparte himself was at Braunau.” | |
“Buonaparte himself!... Just listen to the fool, what he doesn’t | |
know! The Prussians are up in arms now. The Austrians, you see, are | |
putting them down. When they’ve been put down, the war with Buonaparte | |
will begin. And he says Buonaparte is in Braunau! Shows you’re a fool. | |
You’d better listen more carefully!” | |
“What devils these quartermasters are! See, the fifth company is | |
turning into the village already... they will have their buckwheat | |
cooked before we reach our quarters.” | |
“Give me a biscuit, you devil!” | |
“And did you give me tobacco yesterday? That’s just it, friend! Ah, | |
well, never mind, here you are.” | |
“They might call a halt here or we’ll have to do another four miles | |
without eating.” | |
“Wasn’t it fine when those Germans gave us lifts! You just sit still | |
and are drawn along.” | |
“And here, friend, the people are quite beggarly. There they all | |
seemed to be Poles—all under the Russian crown—but here they’re | |
all regular Germans.” | |
“Singers to the front” came the captain’s order. | |
And from the different ranks some twenty men ran to the front. A | |
drummer, their leader, turned round facing the singers, and flourishing | |
his arm, began a long-drawn-out soldiers’ song, commencing with the | |
words: “Morning dawned, the sun was rising,” and concluding: “On | |
then, brothers, on to glory, led by Father Kámenski.” This song had | |
been composed in the Turkish campaign and now being sung in Austria, the | |
only change being that the words “Father Kámenski” were replaced by | |
“Father Kutúzov.” | |
Having jerked out these last words as soldiers do and waved his arms | |
as if flinging something to the ground, the drummer—a lean, handsome | |
soldier of forty—looked sternly at the singers and screwed up his | |
eyes. Then having satisfied himself that all eyes were fixed on him, | |
he raised both arms as if carefully lifting some invisible but precious | |
object above his head and, holding it there for some seconds, suddenly | |
flung it down and began: | |
“Oh, my bower, oh, my bower...!” | |
“Oh, my bower new...!” chimed in twenty voices, and the castanet | |
player, in spite of the burden of his equipment, rushed out to the front | |
and, walking backwards before the company, jerked his shoulders and | |
flourished his castanets as if threatening someone. The soldiers, | |
swinging their arms and keeping time spontaneously, marched with long | |
steps. Behind the company the sound of wheels, the creaking of springs, | |
and the tramp of horses’ hoofs were heard. Kutúzov and his suite were | |
returning to the town. The commander in chief made a sign that the | |
men should continue to march at ease, and he and all his suite showed | |
pleasure at the sound of the singing and the sight of the dancing | |
soldier and the gay and smartly marching men. In the second file | |
from the right flank, beside which the carriage passed the company, | |
a blue-eyed soldier involuntarily attracted notice. It was Dólokhov | |
marching with particular grace and boldness in time to the song and | |
looking at those driving past as if he pitied all who were not at that | |
moment marching with the company. The hussar cornet of Kutúzov’s | |
suite who had mimicked the regimental commander, fell back from the | |
carriage and rode up to Dólokhov. | |
Hussar cornet Zherkóv had at one time, in Petersburg, belonged to | |
the wild set led by Dólokhov. Zherkóv had met Dólokhov abroad as a | |
private and had not seen fit to recognize him. But now that Kutúzov had | |
spoken to the gentleman ranker, he addressed him with the cordiality of | |
an old friend. | |
“My dear fellow, how are you?” said he through the singing, making | |
his horse keep pace with the company. | |
“How am I?” Dólokhov answered coldly. “I am as you see.” | |
The lively song gave a special flavor to the tone of free and easy | |
gaiety with which Zherkóv spoke, and to the intentional coldness of | |
Dólokhov’s reply. | |
“And how do you get on with the officers?” inquired Zherkóv. | |
“All right. They are good fellows. And how have you wriggled onto the | |
staff?” | |
“I was attached; I’m on duty.” | |
Both were silent. | |
“She let the hawk fly upward from her wide right sleeve,” went the | |
song, arousing an involuntary sensation of courage and cheerfulness. | |
Their conversation would probably have been different but for the effect | |
of that song. | |
“Is it true that Austrians have been beaten?” asked Dólokhov. | |
“The devil only knows! They say so.” | |
“I’m glad,” answered Dólokhov briefly and clearly, as the song | |
demanded. | |
“I say, come round some evening and we’ll have a game of faro!” | |
said Zherkóv. | |
“Why, have you too much money?” | |
“Do come.” | |
“I can’t. I’ve sworn not to. I won’t drink and won’t play till | |
I get reinstated.” | |
“Well, that’s only till the first engagement.” | |
“We shall see.” | |
They were again silent. | |
“Come if you need anything. One can at least be of use on the | |
staff...” | |
Dólokhov smiled. “Don’t trouble. If I want anything, I won’t | |
beg—I’ll take it!” | |
“Well, never mind; I only...” | |
“And I only...” | |
“Good-by.” | |
“Good health...” | |
“It’s a long, long way. | |
To my native land...” | |
Zherkóv touched his horse with the spurs; it pranced excitedly from | |
foot to foot uncertain with which to start, then settled down, galloped | |
past the company, and overtook the carriage, still keeping time to the | |
song. | |
CHAPTER III | |
On returning from the review, Kutúzov took the Austrian general into | |
his private room and, calling his adjutant, asked for some papers | |
relating to the condition of the troops on their arrival, and the | |
letters that had come from the Archduke Ferdinand, who was in command of | |
the advanced army. Prince Andrew Bolkónski came into the room with the | |
required papers. Kutúzov and the Austrian member of the Hofkriegsrath | |
were sitting at the table on which a plan was spread out. | |
“Ah!...” said Kutúzov glancing at Bolkónski as if by this | |
exclamation he was asking the adjutant to wait, and he went on with the | |
conversation in French. | |
“All I can say, General,” said he with a pleasant elegance | |
of expression and intonation that obliged one to listen to each | |
deliberately spoken word. It was evident that Kutúzov himself listened | |
with pleasure to his own voice. “All I can say, General, is that if | |
the matter depended on my personal wishes, the will of His Majesty the | |
Emperor Francis would have been fulfilled long ago. I should long | |
ago have joined the archduke. And believe me on my honour that to me | |
personally it would be a pleasure to hand over the supreme command | |
of the army into the hands of a better informed and more skillful | |
general—of whom Austria has so many—and to lay down all this heavy | |
responsibility. But circumstances are sometimes too strong for us, | |
General.” | |
And Kutúzov smiled in a way that seemed to say, “You are quite at | |
liberty not to believe me and I don’t even care whether you do or | |
not, but you have no grounds for telling me so. And that is the whole | |
point.” | |
The Austrian general looked dissatisfied, but had no option but to reply | |
in the same tone. | |
“On the contrary,” he said, in a querulous and angry tone that | |
contrasted with his flattering words, “on the contrary, your | |
excellency’s participation in the common action is highly valued by | |
His Majesty; but we think the present delay is depriving the splendid | |
Russian troops and their commander of the laurels they have been | |
accustomed to win in their battles,” he concluded his evidently | |
prearranged sentence. | |
Kutúzov bowed with the same smile. | |
“But that is my conviction, and judging by the last letter with which | |
His Highness the Archduke Ferdinand has honored me, I imagine that the | |
Austrian troops, under the direction of so skillful a leader as General | |
Mack, have by now already gained a decisive victory and no longer need | |
our aid,” said Kutúzov. | |
The general frowned. Though there was no definite news of an Austrian | |
defeat, there were many circumstances confirming the unfavorable rumors | |
that were afloat, and so Kutúzov’s suggestion of an Austrian victory | |
sounded much like irony. But Kutúzov went on blandly smiling with the | |
same expression, which seemed to say that he had a right to suppose | |
so. And, in fact, the last letter he had received from Mack’s army | |
informed him of a victory and stated strategically the position of the | |
army was very favorable. | |
“Give me that letter,” said Kutúzov turning to Prince Andrew. | |
“Please have a look at it”—and Kutúzov with an ironical smile | |
about the corners of his mouth read to the Austrian general the | |
following passage, in German, from the Archduke Ferdinand’s letter: | |
We have fully concentrated forces of nearly seventy thousand men with | |
which to attack and defeat the enemy should he cross the Lech. Also, | |
as we are masters of Ulm, we cannot be deprived of the advantage of | |
commanding both sides of the Danube, so that should the enemy not | |
cross the Lech, we can cross the Danube, throw ourselves on his line | |
of communications, recross the river lower down, and frustrate his | |
intention should he try to direct his whole force against our faithful | |
ally. We shall therefore confidently await the moment when the Imperial | |
Russian army will be fully equipped, and shall then, in conjunction with | |
it, easily find a way to prepare for the enemy the fate he deserves. | |
Kutúzov sighed deeply on finishing this paragraph and looked at the | |
member of the Hofkriegsrath mildly and attentively. | |
“But you know the wise maxim your excellency, advising one to expect | |
the worst,” said the Austrian general, evidently wishing to have done | |
with jests and to come to business. He involuntarily looked round at the | |
aide-de-camp. | |
“Excuse me, General,” interrupted Kutúzov, also turning to Prince | |
Andrew. “Look here, my dear fellow, get from Kozlóvski all the | |
reports from our scouts. 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.” | |
Prince Andrew bowed his head in token of having understood from the | |
first not only what had been said but also what Kutúzov would have | |
liked to tell him. He gathered up the papers and with a bow to both, | |
stepped softly over the carpet and went out into the waiting room. | |
Though not much time had passed since Prince Andrew had left Russia, he | |
had changed greatly during that period. In the expression of his face, | |
in his movements, in his walk, scarcely a trace was left of his former | |
affected languor and indolence. He now looked like a man who has time | |
to think of the impression he makes on others, but is occupied with | |
agreeable and interesting work. His face expressed more satisfaction | |
with himself and those around him, his smile and glance were brighter | |
and more attractive. | |
Kutúzov, whom he had overtaken in Poland, had received him very kindly, | |
promised not to forget him, distinguished him above the other adjutants, | |
and had taken him to Vienna and given him the more serious commissions. | |
From Vienna Kutúzov wrote to his old comrade, Prince Andrew’s father. | |
Your son bids fair to become an officer distinguished by his industry, | |
firmness, and expedition. I consider myself fortunate to have such a | |
subordinate by me. | |
On Kutúzov’s staff, among his fellow officers and in the army | |
generally, Prince Andrew had, as he had had in Petersburg society, two | |
quite opposite reputations. Some, a minority, acknowledged him to be | |
different from themselves and from everyone else, expected great things | |
of him, listened to him, admired, and imitated him, and with them Prince | |
Andrew was natural and pleasant. Others, the majority, disliked him and | |
considered him conceited, cold, and disagreeable. But among these people | |
Prince Andrew knew how to take his stand so that they respected and even | |
feared him. | |
Coming out of Kutúzov’s room into the waiting room with the papers in | |
his hand Prince Andrew came up to his comrade, the aide-de-camp on duty, | |
Kozlóvski, who was sitting at the window with a book. | |
“Well, Prince?” asked Kozlóvski. | |
“I am ordered to write a memorandum explaining why we are not | |
advancing.” | |
“And why is it?” | |
Prince Andrew shrugged his shoulders. | |
“Any news from Mack?” | |
“No.” | |
“If it were true that he has been beaten, news would have come.” | |
“Probably,” said Prince Andrew moving toward the outer door. | |
But at that instant a tall Austrian general in a greatcoat, with the | |
order of Maria Theresa on his neck and a black bandage round his head, | |
who had evidently just arrived, entered quickly, slamming the door. | |
Prince Andrew stopped short. | |
“Commander in Chief Kutúzov?” said the newly arrived general | |
speaking quickly with a harsh German accent, looking to both sides and | |
advancing straight toward the inner door. | |
“The commander in chief is engaged,” said Kozlóvski, going | |
hurriedly up to the unknown general and blocking his way to the door. | |
“Whom shall I announce?” | |
The unknown general looked disdainfully down at Kozlóvski, who was | |
rather short, as if surprised that anyone should not know him. | |
“The commander in chief is engaged,” repeated Kozlóvski calmly. | |
The general’s face clouded, his lips quivered and trembled. He took | |
out a notebook, hurriedly scribbled something in pencil, tore out the | |
leaf, gave it to Kozlóvski, stepped quickly to the window, and threw | |
himself into a chair, gazing at those in the room as if asking, “Why | |
do they look at me?” Then he lifted his head, stretched his neck as | |
if he intended to say something, but immediately, with affected | |
indifference, began to hum to himself, producing a queer sound which | |
immediately broke off. The door of the private room opened and Kutúzov | |
appeared in the doorway. The general with the bandaged head bent forward | |
as though running away from some danger, and, making long, quick strides | |
with his thin legs, went up to Kutúzov. | |
“Vous voyez le malheureux Mack,” he uttered in a broken voice. | |
Kutúzov’s face as he stood in the open doorway remained perfectly | |
immobile for a few moments. Then wrinkles ran over his face like a wave | |
and his forehead became smooth again, he bowed his head respectfully, | |
closed his eyes, silently let Mack enter his room before him, and closed | |
the door himself behind him. | |
The report which had been circulated that the Austrians had been beaten | |
and that the whole army had surrendered at Ulm proved to be correct. | |
Within half an hour adjutants had been sent in various directions with | |
orders which showed that the Russian troops, who had hitherto been | |
inactive, would also soon have to meet the enemy. | |
Prince Andrew was one of those rare staff officers whose chief interest | |
lay in the general progress of the war. When he saw Mack and heard the | |
details of his disaster he understood that half the campaign was lost, | |
understood all the difficulties of the Russian army’s position, and | |
vividly imagined what awaited it and the part he would have to | |
play. Involuntarily he felt a joyful agitation at the thought of the | |
humiliation of arrogant Austria and that in a week’s time he might, | |
perhaps, see and take part in the first Russian encounter with the | |
French since Suvórov met them. He feared that Bonaparte’s genius | |
might outweigh all the courage of the Russian troops, and at the same | |
time could not admit the idea of his hero being disgraced. | |
Excited and irritated by these thoughts Prince Andrew went toward his | |
room to write to his father, to whom he wrote every day. In the corridor | |
he met Nesvítski, with whom he shared a room, and the wag Zherkóv; | |
they were as usual laughing. | |
“Why are you so glum?” asked Nesvítski noticing Prince Andrew’s | |
pale face and glittering eyes. | |
“There’s nothing to be gay about,” answered Bolkónski. | |
Just as Prince Andrew met Nesvítski and Zherkóv, there came toward | |
them from the other end of the corridor, Strauch, an Austrian general | |
who on Kutúzov’s staff in charge of the provisioning of the Russian | |
army, and the member of the Hofkriegsrath who had arrived the previous | |
evening. There was room enough in the wide corridor for the generals to | |
pass the three officers quite easily, but Zherkóv, pushing Nesvítski | |
aside with his arm, said in a breathless voice, | |
“They’re coming!... they’re coming!... Stand aside, make way, | |
please make way!” | |
The generals were passing by, looking as if they wished to avoid | |
embarrassing attentions. On the face of the wag Zherkóv there suddenly | |
appeared a stupid smile of glee which he seemed unable to suppress. | |
“Your excellency,” said he in German, stepping forward and | |
addressing the Austrian general, “I have the honor to congratulate | |
you.” | |
He bowed his head and scraped first with one foot and then with the | |
other, awkwardly, like a child at a dancing lesson. | |
The member of the Hofkriegsrath looked at him severely but, seeing the | |
seriousness of his stupid smile, could not but give him a moment’s | |
attention. He screwed up his eyes showing that he was listening. | |
“I have the honor to congratulate you. General Mack has arrived, quite | |
well, only a little bruised just here,” he added, pointing with a | |
beaming smile to his head. | |
The general frowned, turned away, and went on. | |
“Gott, wie naiv!” * said he angrily, after he had gone a few steps. | |
* “Good God, what simplicity!” | |
Nesvítski with a laugh threw his arms round Prince Andrew, but | |
Bolkónski, turning still paler, pushed him away with an angry look and | |
turned to Zherkóv. The nervous irritation aroused by the appearance | |
of Mack, the news of his defeat, and the thought of what lay before the | |
Russian army found vent in anger at Zherkóv’s untimely jest. | |
“If you, sir, choose to make a buffoon of yourself,” he said | |
sharply, with a slight trembling of the lower jaw, “I can’t prevent | |
your doing so; but I warn you that if you dare to play the fool in my | |
presence, I will teach you to behave yourself.” | |
Nesvítski and Zherkóv were so surprised by this outburst that they | |
gazed at Bolkónski silently with wide-open eyes. | |
“What’s the matter? I only congratulated them,” said Zherkóv. | |
“I am not jesting with you; please be silent!” cried Bolkónski, | |
and taking Nesvítski’s arm he left Zherkóv, who did not know what to | |
say. | |
“Come, what’s the matter, old fellow?” said Nesvítski trying to | |
soothe him. | |
“What’s the matter?” exclaimed Prince Andrew standing still in | |
his excitement. “Don’t you understand that either we are officers | |
serving our Tsar and our country, rejoicing in the successes and | |
grieving at the misfortunes of our common cause, or we are merely | |
lackeys who care nothing for their master’s business. Quarante mille | |
hommes massacrés et l’armée de nos alliés détruite, et vous | |
trouvez là le mot pour rire,” * he said, as if strengthening his | |
views by this French sentence. “C’est bien pour un garçon de rien | |
comme cet individu dont vous avez fait un ami, mais pas pour vous, pas | |
pour vous. *(2) Only a hobbledehoy could amuse himself in this | |
way,” he added in Russian—but pronouncing the word with a French | |
accent—having noticed that Zherkóv could still hear him. | |
* “Forty thousand men massacred and the army of our allies | |
destroyed, and you find that a cause for jesting!” | |
* (2) “It is all very well for that good-for-nothing fellow | |
of whom you have made a friend, but not for you, not for | |
you.” | |
He waited a moment to see whether the cornet would answer, but he turned | |
and went out of the corridor. | |
CHAPTER IV | |
The Pávlograd Hussars were stationed two miles from Braunau. The | |
squadron in which Nicholas Rostóv served as a cadet was quartered in | |
the German village of Salzeneck. The best quarters in the village were | |
assigned to cavalry-captain Denísov, the squadron commander, known | |
throughout the whole cavalry division as Váska Denísov. Cadet Rostóv, | |
ever since he had overtaken the regiment in Poland, had lived with the | |
squadron commander. | |
On October 11, the day when all was astir at headquarters over the news | |
of Mack’s defeat, the camp life of the officers of this squadron was | |
proceeding as usual. Denísov, who had been losing at cards all night, | |
had not yet come home when Rostóv rode back early in the morning from | |
a foraging expedition. Rostóv in his cadet uniform, with a jerk to his | |
horse, rode up to the porch, swung his leg over the saddle with a supple | |
youthful movement, stood for a moment in the stirrup as if loathe to | |
part from his horse, and at last sprang down and called to his orderly. | |
“Ah, Bondarénko, dear friend!” said he to the hussar who rushed up | |
headlong to the horse. “Walk him up and down, my dear fellow,” he | |
continued, with that gay brotherly cordiality which goodhearted young | |
people show to everyone when they are happy. | |
“Yes, your excellency,” answered the Ukrainian gaily, tossing his | |
head. | |
“Mind, walk him up and down well!” | |
Another hussar also rushed toward the horse, but Bondarénko had already | |
thrown the reins of the snaffle bridle over the horse’s head. It was | |
evident that the cadet was liberal with his tips and that it paid to | |
serve him. Rostóv patted the horse’s neck and then his flank, and | |
lingered for a moment. | |
“Splendid! What a horse he will be!” he thought with a smile, and | |
holding up his saber, his spurs jingling, he ran up the steps of the | |
porch. His landlord, who in a waistcoat and a pointed cap, pitchfork in | |
hand, was clearing manure from the cowhouse, looked out, and his face | |
immediately brightened on seeing Rostóv. “Schön gut Morgen! Schön | |
gut Morgen!” * he said winking with a merry smile, evidently pleased | |
to greet the young man. | |
* “A very good morning! A very good morning!” | |
“Schon fleissig?” * said Rostóv with the same gay brotherly smile | |
which did not leave his eager face. “Hoch Oestreicher! Hoch Russen! | |
Kaiser Alexander hoch!” *(2) said he, quoting words often repeated by | |
the German landlord. | |
* “Busy already?” | |
* (2) “Hurrah for the Austrians! Hurrah for the Russians! | |
Hurrah for Emperor Alexander!” | |
The German laughed, came out of the cowshed, pulled off his cap, and | |
waving it above his head cried: | |
“Und die ganze Welt hoch!” * | |
* “And hurrah for the whole world!” | |
Rostóv waved his cap above his head like the German and cried laughing, | |
“Und vivat die ganze Welt!” Though neither the German cleaning his | |
cowshed nor Rostóv back with his platoon from foraging for hay had any | |
reason for rejoicing, they looked at each other with joyful delight and | |
brotherly love, wagged their heads in token of their mutual affection, | |
and parted smiling, the German returning to his cowshed and Rostóv | |
going to the cottage he occupied with Denísov. | |
“What about your master?” he asked Lavrúshka, Denísov’s orderly, | |
whom all the regiment knew for a rogue. | |
“Hasn’t been in since the evening. Must have been losing,” | |
answered Lavrúshka. “I know by now, if he wins he comes back early to | |
brag about it, but if he stays out till morning it means he’s lost and | |
will come back in a rage. Will you have coffee?” | |
“Yes, bring some.” | |
Ten minutes later Lavrúshka brought the coffee. “He’s coming!” | |
said he. “Now for trouble!” Rostóv looked out of the window and | |
saw Denísov coming home. Denísov was a small man with a red face, | |
sparkling black eyes, and black tousled mustache and hair. He wore an | |
unfastened cloak, wide breeches hanging down in creases, and a crumpled | |
shako on the back of his head. He came up to the porch gloomily, hanging | |
his head. | |
“Lavwúska!” he shouted loudly and angrily, “take it off, | |
blockhead!” | |
“Well, I am taking it off,” replied Lavrúshka’s voice. | |
“Ah, you’re up already,” said Denísov, entering the room. | |
“Long ago,” answered Rostóv, “I have already been for the hay, | |
and have seen Fräulein Mathilde.” | |
“Weally! And I’ve been losing, bwother. I lost yesterday like a | |
damned fool!” cried Denísov, not pronouncing his r’s. “Such ill | |
luck! Such ill luck. As soon as you left, it began and went on. Hullo | |
there! Tea!” | |
Puckering up his face though smiling, and showing his short strong | |
teeth, he began with stubby fingers of both hands to ruffle up his thick | |
tangled black hair. | |
“And what devil made me go to that wat?” (an officer nicknamed | |
“the rat”) he said, rubbing his forehead and whole face with both | |
hands. “Just fancy, he didn’t let me win a single cahd, not one | |
cahd.” | |
He took the lighted pipe that was offered to him, gripped it in his | |
fist, and tapped it on the floor, making the sparks fly, while he | |
continued to shout. | |
“He lets one win the singles and collahs it as soon as one doubles it; | |
gives the singles and snatches the doubles!” | |
He scattered the burning tobacco, smashed the pipe, and threw it away. | |
Then he remained silent for a while, and all at once looked cheerfully | |
with his glittering, black eyes at Rostóv. | |
“If at least we had some women here; but there’s nothing foh one | |
to do but dwink. If we could only get to fighting soon. Hullo, who’s | |
there?” he said, turning to the door as he heard a tread of heavy | |
boots and the clinking of spurs that came to a stop, and a respectful | |
cough. | |
“The squadron quartermaster!” said Lavrúshka. | |
Denísov’s face puckered still more. | |
“Wetched!” he muttered, throwing down a purse with some gold in it. | |
“Wostóv, deah fellow, just see how much there is left and shove the | |
purse undah the pillow,” he said, and went out to the quartermaster. | |
Rostóv took the money and, mechanically arranging the old and new coins | |
in separate piles, began counting them. | |
“Ah! Telyánin! How d’ye do? They plucked me last night,” came | |
Denísov’s voice from the next room. | |
“Where? At Bykov’s, at the rat’s... I knew it,” replied a piping | |
voice, and Lieutenant Telyánin, a small officer of the same squadron, | |
entered the room. | |
Rostóv thrust the purse under the pillow and shook the damp little hand | |
which was offered him. Telyánin for some reason had been transferred | |
from the Guards just before this campaign. He behaved very well in the | |
regiment but was not liked; Rostóv especially detested him and was | |
unable to overcome or conceal his groundless antipathy to the man. | |
“Well, young cavalryman, how is my Rook behaving?” he asked. (Rook | |
was a young horse Telyánin had sold to Rostóv.) | |
The lieutenant never looked the man he was speaking to straight in the | |
face; his eyes continually wandered from one object to another. | |
“I saw you riding this morning...” he added. | |
“Oh, he’s all right, a good horse,” answered Rostóv, though the | |
horse for which he had paid seven hundred rubbles was not worth half | |
that sum. “He’s begun to go a little lame on the left foreleg,” he | |
added. | |
“The hoof’s cracked! That’s nothing. I’ll teach you what to do | |
and show you what kind of rivet to use.” | |
“Yes, please do,” said Rostóv. | |
“I’ll show you, I’ll show you! It’s not a secret. And it’s a | |
horse you’ll thank me for.” | |
“Then I’ll have it brought round,” said Rostóv wishing to avoid | |
Telyánin, and he went out to give the order. | |
In the passage Denísov, with a pipe, was squatting on the threshold | |
facing the quartermaster who was reporting to him. On seeing Rostóv, | |
Denísov screwed up his face and pointing over his shoulder with his | |
thumb to the room where Telyánin was sitting, he frowned and gave a | |
shudder of disgust. | |
“Ugh! I don’t like that fellow,” he said, regardless of the | |
quartermaster’s presence. | |
Rostóv shrugged his shoulders as much as to say: “Nor do I, but | |
what’s one to do?” and, having given his order, he returned to | |
Telyánin. | |
Telyánin was sitting in the same indolent pose in which Rostóv had | |
left him, rubbing his small white hands. | |
“Well there certainly are disgusting people,” thought Rostóv as he | |
entered. | |
“Have you told them to bring the horse?” asked Telyánin, getting up | |
and looking carelessly about him. | |
“I have.” | |
“Let us go ourselves. I only came round to ask Denísov about | |
yesterday’s order. Have you got it, Denísov?” | |
“Not yet. But where are you off to?” | |
“I want to teach this young man how to shoe a horse,” said | |
Telyánin. | |
They went through the porch and into the stable. The lieutenant | |
explained how to rivet the hoof and went away to his own quarters. | |
When Rostóv went back there was a bottle of vodka and a sausage on the | |
table. Denísov was sitting there scratching with his pen on a sheet of | |
paper. He looked gloomily in Rostóv’s face and said: “I am witing | |
to her.” | |
He leaned his elbows on the table with his pen in his hand and, | |
evidently glad of a chance to say quicker in words what he wanted to | |
write, told Rostóv the contents of his letter. | |
“You see, my fwiend,” he said, “we sleep when we don’t love. We | |
are childwen of the dust... but one falls in love and one is a God, one | |
is pua’ as on the fihst day of cweation... Who’s that now? Send him | |
to the devil, I’m busy!” he shouted to Lavrúshka, who went up to | |
him not in the least abashed. | |
“Who should it be? You yourself told him to come. It’s the | |
quartermaster for the money.” | |
Denísov frowned and was about to shout some reply but stopped. | |
“Wetched business,” he muttered to himself. “How much is left in | |
the puhse?” he asked, turning to Rostóv. | |
“Seven new and three old imperials.” | |
“Oh, it’s wetched! Well, what are you standing there for, you | |
sca’cwow? Call the quahtehmasteh,” he shouted to Lavrúshka. | |
“Please, Denísov, let me lend you some: I have some, you know,” | |
said Rostóv, blushing. | |
“Don’t like bowwowing from my own fellows, I don’t,” growled | |
Denísov. | |
“But if you won’t accept money from me like a comrade, you will | |
offend me. Really I have some,” Rostóv repeated. | |
“No, I tell you.” | |
And Denísov went to the bed to get the purse from under the pillow. | |
“Where have you put it, Wostóv?” | |
“Under the lower pillow.” | |
“It’s not there.” | |
Denísov threw both pillows on the floor. The purse was not there. | |
“That’s a miwacle.” | |
“Wait, haven’t you dropped it?” said Rostóv, picking up the | |
pillows one at a time and shaking them. | |
He pulled off the quilt and shook it. The purse was not there. | |
“Dear me, can I have forgotten? No, I remember thinking that you kept | |
it under your head like a treasure,” said Rostóv. “I put it just | |
here. Where is it?” he asked, turning to Lavrúshka. | |
“I haven’t been in the room. It must be where you put it.” | |
“But it isn’t?...” | |
“You’re always like that; you thwow a thing down anywhere and forget | |
it. Feel in your pockets.” | |
“No, if I hadn’t thought of it being a treasure,” said Rostóv, | |
“but I remember putting it there.” | |
Lavrúshka turned all the bedding over, looked under the bed and under | |
the table, searched everywhere, and stood still in the middle of the | |
room. Denísov silently watched Lavrúshka’s movements, and when the | |
latter threw up his arms in surprise saying it was nowhere to be found | |
Denísov glanced at Rostóv. | |
“Wostóv, you’ve not been playing schoolboy twicks...” | |
Rostóv felt Denísov’s gaze fixed on him, raised his eyes, and | |
instantly dropped them again. All the blood which had seemed congested | |
somewhere below his throat rushed to his face and eyes. He could not | |
draw breath. | |
“And there hasn’t been anyone in the room except the lieutenant and | |
yourselves. It must be here somewhere,” said Lavrúshka. | |
“Now then, you devil’s puppet, look alive and hunt for it!” | |
shouted Denísov, suddenly, turning purple and rushing at the man with | |
a threatening gesture. “If the purse isn’t found I’ll flog you, | |
I’ll flog you all.” | |
Rostóv, his eyes avoiding Denísov, began buttoning his coat, buckled | |
on his saber, and put on his cap. | |
“I must have that purse, I tell you,” shouted Denísov, shaking his | |
orderly by the shoulders and knocking him against the wall. | |
“Denísov, let him alone, I know who has taken it,” said Rostóv, | |
going toward the door without raising his eyes. Denísov paused, thought | |
a moment, and, evidently understanding what Rostóv hinted at, seized | |
his arm. | |
“Nonsense!” he cried, and the veins on his forehead and neck stood | |
out like cords. “You are mad, I tell you. I won’t allow it. | |
The purse is here! I’ll flay this scoundwel alive, and it will be | |
found.” | |
“I know who has taken it,” repeated Rostóv in an unsteady voice, | |
and went to the door. | |
“And I tell you, don’t you dahe to do it!” shouted Denísov, | |
rushing at the cadet to restrain him. | |
But Rostóv pulled away his arm and, with as much anger as though | |
Denísov were his worst enemy, firmly fixed his eyes directly on his | |
face. | |
“Do you understand what you’re saying?” he said in a trembling | |
voice. “There was no one else in the room except myself. So that if it | |
is not so, then...” | |
He could not finish, and ran out of the room. | |
“Ah, may the devil take you and evewybody,” were the last words | |
Rostóv heard. | |
Rostóv went to Telyánin’s quarters. | |
“The master is not in, he’s gone to headquarters,” said | |
Telyánin’s orderly. “Has something happened?” he added, surprised | |
at the cadet’s troubled face. | |
“No, nothing.” | |
“You’ve only just missed him,” said the orderly. | |
The headquarters were situated two miles away from Salzeneck, and | |
Rostóv, without returning home, took a horse and rode there. There was | |
an inn in the village which the officers frequented. Rostóv rode up to | |
it and saw Telyánin’s horse at the porch. | |
In the second room of the inn the lieutenant was sitting over a dish of | |
sausages and a bottle of wine. | |
“Ah, you’ve come here too, young man!” he said, smiling and | |
raising his eyebrows. | |
“Yes,” said Rostóv as if it cost him a great deal to utter the | |
word; and he sat down at the nearest table. | |
Both were silent. There were two Germans and a Russian officer in the | |
room. No one spoke and the only sounds heard were the clatter of knives | |
and the munching of the lieutenant. | |
When Telyánin had finished his lunch he took out of his pocket a double | |
purse and, drawing its rings aside with his small, white, turned-up | |
fingers, drew out a gold imperial, and lifting his eyebrows gave it to | |
the waiter. | |
“Please be quick,” he said. | |
The coin was a new one. Rostóv rose and went up to Telyánin. | |
“Allow me to look at your purse,” he said in a low, almost | |
inaudible, voice. | |
With shifting eyes but eyebrows still raised, Telyánin handed him the | |
purse. | |
“Yes, it’s a nice purse. Yes, yes,” he said, growing suddenly | |
pale, and added, “Look at it, young man.” | |
Rostóv took the purse in his hand, examined it and the money in it, and | |
looked at Telyánin. The lieutenant was looking about in his usual way | |
and suddenly seemed to grow very merry. | |
“If we get to Vienna I’ll get rid of it there but in these wretched | |
little towns there’s nowhere to spend it,” said he. “Well, let me | |
have it, young man, I’m going.” | |
Rostóv did not speak. | |
“And you? Are you going to have lunch too? They feed you quite | |
decently here,” continued Telyánin. “Now then, let me have it.” | |
He stretched out his hand to take hold of the purse. Rostóv let go of | |
it. Telyánin took the purse and began carelessly slipping it into the | |
pocket of his riding breeches, with his eyebrows lifted and his mouth | |
slightly open, as if to say, “Yes, yes, I am putting my purse in my | |
pocket and that’s quite simple and is no one else’s business.” | |
“Well, young man?” he said with a sigh, and from under his lifted | |
brows he glanced into Rostóv’s eyes. | |
Some flash as of an electric spark shot from Telyánin’s eyes to | |
Rostóv’s and back, and back again and again in an instant. | |
“Come here,” said Rostóv, catching hold of Telyánin’s arm and | |
almost dragging him to the window. “That money is Denísov’s; you | |
took it...” he whispered just above Telyánin’s ear. | |
“What? What? How dare you? What?” said Telyánin. | |
But these words came like a piteous, despairing cry and an entreaty for | |
pardon. As soon as Rostóv heard them, an enormous load of doubt | |
fell from him. He was glad, and at the same instant began to pity the | |
miserable man who stood before him, but the task he had begun had to be | |
completed. | |
“Heaven only knows what the people here may imagine,” muttered | |
Telyánin, taking up his cap and moving toward a small empty room. “We | |
must have an explanation...” | |
“I know it and shall prove it,” said Rostóv. | |
“I...” | |
Every muscle of Telyánin’s pale, terrified face began to quiver, his | |
eyes still shifted from side to side but with a downward look not rising | |
to Rostóv’s face, and his sobs were audible. | |
“Count!... Don’t ruin a young fellow... here is this wretched money, | |
take it...” He threw it on the table. “I have an old father and | |
mother!...” | |
Rostóv took the money, avoiding Telyánin’s eyes, and went out of the | |
room without a word. But at the door he stopped and then retraced his | |
steps. “O God,” he said with tears in his eyes, “how could you do | |
it?” | |
“Count...” said Telyánin drawing nearer to him. | |
“Don’t touch me,” said Rostóv, drawing back. “If you need it, | |
take the money,” and he threw the purse to him and ran out of the inn. | |
CHAPTER V | |
That same evening there was an animated discussion among the | |
squadron’s officers in Denísov’s quarters. | |
“And I tell you, Rostóv, that you must apologize to the colonel!” | |
said a tall, grizzly-haired staff captain, with enormous mustaches and | |
many wrinkles on his large features, to Rostóv who was crimson with | |
excitement. | |
The staff captain, Kírsten, had twice been reduced to the ranks for | |
affairs of honor and had twice regained his commission. | |
“I will allow no one to call me a liar!” cried Rostóv. “He told | |
me I lied, and I told him he lied. And there it rests. He may keep me | |
on duty every day, or may place me under arrest, but no one can make | |
me apologize, because if he, as commander of this regiment, thinks it | |
beneath his dignity to give me satisfaction, then...” | |
“You just wait a moment, my dear fellow, and listen,” interrupted | |
the staff captain in his deep bass, calmly stroking his long mustache. | |
“You tell the colonel in the presence of other officers that an | |
officer has stolen...” | |
“I’m not to blame that the conversation began in the presence of | |
other officers. Perhaps I ought not to have spoken before them, but I am | |
not a diplomatist. That’s why I joined the hussars, thinking that here | |
one would not need finesse; and he tells me that I am lying—so let him | |
give me satisfaction...” | |
“That’s all right. No one thinks you a coward, but that’s not the | |
point. Ask Denísov whether it is not out of the question for a cadet to | |
demand satisfaction of his regimental commander?” | |
Denísov sat gloomily biting his mustache and listening to the | |
conversation, evidently with no wish to take part in it. He answered the | |
staff captain’s question by a disapproving shake of his head. | |
“You speak to the colonel about this nasty business before other | |
officers,” continued the staff captain, “and Bogdánich” (the | |
colonel was called Bogdánich) “shuts you up.” | |
“He did not shut me up, he said I was telling an untruth.” | |
“Well, have it so, and you talked a lot of nonsense to him and must | |
apologize.” | |
“Not on any account!” exclaimed Rostóv. | |
“I did not expect this of you,” said the staff captain seriously and | |
severely. “You don’t wish to apologize, but, man, it’s not only to | |
him but to the whole regiment—all of us—you’re to blame all round. | |
The case is this: you ought to have thought the matter over and | |
taken advice; but no, you go and blurt it all straight out before the | |
officers. Now what was the colonel to do? Have the officer tried and | |
disgrace the whole regiment? Disgrace the whole regiment because of one | |
scoundrel? Is that how you look at it? We don’t see it like that. And | |
Bogdánich was a brick: he told you you were saying what was not true. | |
It’s not pleasant, but what’s to be done, my dear fellow? You landed | |
yourself in it. And now, when one wants to smooth the thing over, some | |
conceit prevents your apologizing, and you wish to make the whole | |
affair public. You are offended at being put on duty a bit, but why not | |
apologize to an old and honorable officer? Whatever Bogdánich may | |
be, anyway he is an honorable and brave old colonel! You’re quick at | |
taking offense, but you don’t mind disgracing the whole regiment!” | |
The staff captain’s voice began to tremble. “You have been in the | |
regiment next to no time, my lad, you’re here today and tomorrow | |
you’ll be appointed adjutant somewhere and can snap your fingers when | |
it is said ‘There are thieves among the Pávlograd officers!’ But | |
it’s not all the same to us! Am I not right, Denísov? It’s not the | |
same!” | |
Denísov remained silent and did not move, but occasionally looked with | |
his glittering black eyes at Rostóv. | |
“You value your own pride and don’t wish to apologize,” continued | |
the staff captain, “but we old fellows, who have grown up in and, God | |
willing, are going to die in the regiment, we prize the honor of the | |
regiment, and Bogdánich knows it. Oh, we do prize it, old fellow! And | |
all this is not right, it’s not right! You may take offense or not but | |
I always stick to mother truth. It’s not right!” | |
And the staff captain rose and turned away from Rostóv. | |
“That’s twue, devil take it!” shouted Denísov, jumping up. “Now | |
then, Wostóv, now then!” | |
Rostóv, growing red and pale alternately, looked first at one officer | |
and then at the other. | |
“No, gentlemen, no... you mustn’t think... I quite understand. | |
You’re wrong to think that of me... I... for me... for the honor of | |
the regiment I’d... Ah well, I’ll show that in action, and for me | |
the honor of the flag... Well, never mind, it’s true I’m to blame, | |
to blame all round. Well, what else do you want?...” | |
“Come, that’s right, Count!” cried the staff captain, turning | |
round and clapping Rostóv on the shoulder with his big hand. | |
“I tell you,” shouted Denísov, “he’s a fine fellow.” | |
“That’s better, Count,” said the staff captain, beginning to | |
address Rostóv by his title, as if in recognition of his confession. | |
“Go and apologize, your excellency. Yes, go!” | |
“Gentlemen, I’ll do anything. No one shall hear a word from me,” | |
said Rostóv in an imploring voice, “but I can’t apologize, by God I | |
can’t, do what you will! How can I go and apologize like a little boy | |
asking forgiveness?” | |
Denísov began to laugh. | |
“It’ll be worse for you. Bogdánich is vindictive and you’ll pay | |
for your obstinacy,” said Kírsten. | |
“No, on my word it’s not obstinacy! I can’t describe the feeling. | |
I can’t...” | |
“Well, it’s as you like,” said the staff captain. “And what has | |
become of that scoundrel?” he asked Denísov. | |
“He has weported himself sick, he’s to be stwuck off the list | |
tomowwow,” muttered Denísov. | |
“It is an illness, there’s no other way of explaining it,” said | |
the staff captain. | |
“Illness or not, he’d better not cwoss my path. I’d kill him!” | |
shouted Denísov in a bloodthirsty tone. | |
Just then Zherkóv entered the room. | |
“What brings you here?” cried the officers turning to the newcomer. | |
“We’re to go into action, gentlemen! Mack has surrendered with his | |
whole army.” | |
“It’s not true!” | |
“I’ve seen him myself!” | |
“What? Saw the real Mack? With hands and feet?” | |
“Into action! Into action! Bring him a bottle for such news! But how | |
did you come here?” | |
“I’ve been sent back to the regiment all on account of that devil, | |
Mack. An Austrian general complained of me. I congratulated him on | |
Mack’s arrival... What’s the matter, Rostóv? You look as if you’d | |
just come out of a hot bath.” | |
“Oh, my dear fellow, we’re in such a stew here these last two | |
days.” | |
The regimental adjutant came in and confirmed the news brought by | |
Zherkóv. They were under orders to advance next day. | |
“We’re going into action, gentlemen!” | |
“Well, thank God! We’ve been sitting here too long!” | |
CHAPTER VI | |
Kutúzov fell back toward Vienna, destroying behind him the bridges over | |
the rivers Inn (at Braunau) and Traun (near Linz). On October 23 the | |
Russian troops were crossing the river Enns. At midday the Russian | |
baggage train, the artillery, and columns of troops were defiling | |
through the town of Enns on both sides of the bridge. | |
It was a warm, rainy, autumnal day. The wide expanse that opened out | |
before the heights on which the Russian batteries stood guarding the | |
bridge was at times veiled by a diaphanous curtain of slanting rain, and | |
then, suddenly spread out in the sunlight, far-distant objects could | |
be clearly seen glittering as though freshly varnished. Down below, | |
the little town could be seen with its white, red-roofed houses, its | |
cathedral, and its bridge, on both sides of which streamed jostling | |
masses of Russian troops. At the bend of the Danube, vessels, an island, | |
and a castle with a park surrounded by the waters of the confluence of | |
the Enns and the Danube became visible, and the rocky left bank of the | |
Danube covered with pine forests, with a mystic background of green | |
treetops and bluish gorges. The turrets of a convent stood out beyond a | |
wild virgin pine forest, and far away on the other side of the Enns the | |
enemy’s horse patrols could be discerned. | |
Among the field guns on the brow of the hill the general in command of | |
the rearguard stood with a staff officer, scanning the country through | |
his fieldglass. A little behind them Nesvítski, who had been sent to | |
the rearguard by the commander in chief, was sitting on the trail of a | |
gun carriage. A Cossack who accompanied him had handed him a knapsack | |
and a flask, and Nesvítski was treating some officers to pies and real | |
doppelkümmel. The officers gladly gathered round him, some on their | |
knees, some squatting Turkish fashion on the wet grass. | |
“Yes, the Austrian prince who built that castle was no fool. It’s | |
a fine place! Why are you not eating anything, gentlemen?” Nesvítski | |
was saying. | |
“Thank you very much, Prince,” answered one of the officers, pleased | |
to be talking to a staff officer of such importance. “It’s a lovely | |
place! We passed close to the park and saw two deer... and what a | |
splendid house!” | |
“Look, Prince,” said another, who would have dearly liked to take | |
another pie but felt shy, and therefore pretended to be examining the | |
countryside—“See, our infantrymen have already got there. Look there | |
in the meadow behind the village, three of them are dragging something. | |
They’ll ransack that castle,” he remarked with evident approval. | |
“So they will,” said Nesvítski. “No, but what I should like,” | |
added he, munching a pie in his moist-lipped handsome mouth, “would be | |
to slip in over there.” | |
He pointed with a smile to a turreted nunnery, and his eyes narrowed and | |
gleamed. | |
“That would be fine, gentlemen!” | |
The officers laughed. | |
“Just to flutter the nuns a bit. They say there are Italian girls | |
among them. On my word I’d give five years of my life for it!” | |
“They must be feeling dull, too,” said one of the bolder officers, | |
laughing. | |
Meanwhile the staff officer standing in front pointed out something to | |
the general, who looked through his field glass. | |
“Yes, so it is, so it is,” said the general angrily, lowering the | |
field glass and shrugging his shoulders, “so it is! They’ll be fired | |
on at the crossing. And why are they dawdling there?” | |
On the opposite side the enemy could be seen by the naked eye, and from | |
their battery a milk-white cloud arose. Then came the distant report of | |
a shot, and our troops could be seen hurrying to the crossing. | |
Nesvítski rose, puffing, and went up to the general, smiling. | |
“Would not your excellency like a little refreshment?” he said. | |
“It’s a bad business,” said the general without answering him, | |
“our men have been wasting time.” | |
“Hadn’t I better ride over, your excellency?” asked Nesvítski. | |
“Yes, please do,” answered the general, and he repeated the order | |
that had already once been given in detail: “and tell the hussars | |
that they are to cross last and to fire the bridge as I ordered; and the | |
inflammable material on the bridge must be reinspected.” | |
“Very good,” answered Nesvítski. | |
He called the Cossack with his horse, told him to put away the knapsack | |
and flask, and swung his heavy person easily into the saddle. | |
“I’ll really call in on the nuns,” he said to the officers who | |
watched him smilingly, and he rode off by the winding path down the | |
hill. | |
“Now then, let’s see how far it will carry, Captain. Just try!” | |
said the general, turning to an artillery officer. “Have a little fun | |
to pass the time.” | |
“Crew, to your guns!” commanded the officer. | |
In a moment the men came running gaily from their campfires and began | |
loading. | |
“One!” came the command. | |
Number one jumped briskly aside. The gun rang out with a deafening | |
metallic roar, and a whistling grenade flew above the heads of our | |
troops below the hill and fell far short of the enemy, a little smoke | |
showing the spot where it burst. | |
The faces of officers and men brightened up at the sound. Everyone got | |
up and began watching the movements of our troops below, as plainly | |
visible as if but a stone’s throw away, and the movements of the | |
approaching enemy farther off. At the same instant the sun came fully | |
out from behind the clouds, and the clear sound of the solitary shot | |
and the brilliance of the bright sunshine merged in a single joyous and | |
spirited impression. | |
CHAPTER VII | |
Two of the enemy’s shots had already flown across the bridge, where | |
there was a crush. Halfway across stood Prince Nesvítski, who had | |
alighted from his horse and whose big body was jammed against the | |
railings. He looked back laughing to the Cossack who stood a few | |
steps behind him holding two horses by their bridles. Each time Prince | |
Nesvítski tried to move on, soldiers and carts pushed him back again | |
and pressed him against the railings, and all he could do was to smile. | |
“What a fine fellow you are, friend!” said the Cossack to a convoy | |
soldier with a wagon, who was pressing onto the infantrymen who were | |
crowded together close to his wheels and his horses. “What a fellow! | |
You can’t wait a moment! Don’t you see the general wants to pass?” | |
But the convoyman took no notice of the word “general” and shouted | |
at the soldiers who were blocking his way. “Hi there, boys! Keep to | |
the left! Wait a bit.” But the soldiers, crowded together shoulder to | |
shoulder, their bayonets interlocking, moved over the bridge in a dense | |
mass. Looking down over the rails Prince Nesvítski saw the rapid, noisy | |
little waves of the Enns, which rippling and eddying round the piles of | |
the bridge chased each other along. Looking on the bridge he saw equally | |
uniform living waves of soldiers, shoulder straps, covered shakos, | |
knapsacks, bayonets, long muskets, and, under the shakos, faces with | |
broad cheekbones, sunken cheeks, and listless tired expressions, and | |
feet that moved through the sticky mud that covered the planks of the | |
bridge. Sometimes through the monotonous waves of men, like a fleck of | |
white foam on the waves of the Enns, an officer, in a cloak and with | |
a type of face different from that of the men, squeezed his way along; | |
sometimes like a chip of wood whirling in the river, an hussar on foot, | |
an orderly, or a townsman was carried through the waves of infantry; | |
and sometimes like a log floating down the river, an officers’ or | |
company’s baggage wagon, piled high, leather covered, and hemmed in on | |
all sides, moved across the bridge. | |
“It’s as if a dam had burst,” said the Cossack hopelessly. “Are | |
there many more of you to come?” | |
“A million all but one!” replied a waggish soldier in a torn coat, | |
with a wink, and passed on followed by another, an old man. | |
“If he” (he meant the enemy) “begins popping at the bridge now,” | |
said the old soldier dismally to a comrade, “you’ll forget to | |
scratch yourself.” | |
That soldier passed on, and after him came another sitting on a cart. | |
“Where the devil have the leg bands been shoved to?” said an | |
orderly, running behind the cart and fumbling in the back of it. | |
And he also passed on with the wagon. Then came some merry soldiers who | |
had evidently been drinking. | |
“And then, old fellow, he gives him one in the teeth with the butt | |
end of his gun...” a soldier whose greatcoat was well tucked up said | |
gaily, with a wide swing of his arm. | |
“Yes, the ham was just delicious...” answered another with a loud | |
laugh. And they, too, passed on, so that Nesvítski did not learn who | |
had been struck on the teeth, or what the ham had to do with it. | |
“Bah! How they scurry. He just sends a ball and they think they’ll | |
all be killed,” a sergeant was saying angrily and reproachfully. | |
“As it flies past me, Daddy, the ball I mean,” said a young soldier | |
with an enormous mouth, hardly refraining from laughing, “I felt like | |
dying of fright. I did, ‘pon my word, I got that frightened!” said | |
he, as if bragging of having been frightened. | |
That one also passed. Then followed a cart unlike any that had gone | |
before. It was a German cart with a pair of horses led by a German, and | |
seemed loaded with a whole houseful of effects. A fine brindled cow with | |
a large udder was attached to the cart behind. A woman with an unweaned | |
baby, an old woman, and a healthy German girl with bright red cheeks | |
were sitting on some feather beds. Evidently these fugitives were | |
allowed to pass by special permission. The eyes of all the soldiers | |
turned toward the women, and while the vehicle was passing at foot pace | |
all the soldiers’ remarks related to the two young ones. Every face | |
bore almost the same smile, expressing unseemly thoughts about the | |
women. | |
“Just see, the German sausage is making tracks, too!” | |
“Sell me the missis,” said another soldier, addressing the German, | |
who, angry and frightened, strode energetically along with downcast | |
eyes. | |
“See how smart she’s made herself! Oh, the devils!” | |
“There, Fedótov, you should be quartered on them!” | |
“I have seen as much before now, mate!” | |
“Where are you going?” asked an infantry officer who was eating an | |
apple, also half smiling as he looked at the handsome girl. | |
The German closed his eyes, signifying that he did not understand. | |
“Take it if you like,” said the officer, giving the girl an apple. | |
The girl smiled and took it. Nesvítski like the rest of the men on the | |
bridge did not take his eyes off the women till they had passed. When | |
they had gone by, the same stream of soldiers followed, with the same | |
kind of talk, and at last all stopped. As often happens, the horses of | |
a convoy wagon became restive at the end of the bridge, and the whole | |
crowd had to wait. | |
“And why are they stopping? There’s no proper order!” said the | |
soldiers. “Where are you shoving to? Devil take you! Can’t you wait? | |
It’ll be worse if he fires the bridge. See, here’s an officer jammed | |
in too”—different voices were saying in the crowd, as the men looked | |
at one another, and all pressed toward the exit from the bridge. | |
Looking down at the waters of the Enns under the bridge, Nesvítski | |
suddenly heard a sound new to him, of something swiftly approaching... | |
something big, that splashed into the water. | |
“Just see where it carries to!” a soldier near by said sternly, | |
looking round at the sound. | |
“Encouraging us to get along quicker,” said another uneasily. | |
The crowd moved on again. Nesvítski realized that it was a cannon ball. | |
“Hey, Cossack, my horse!” he said. “Now, then, you there! get out | |
of the way! Make way!” | |
With great difficulty he managed to get to his horse, and shouting | |
continually he moved on. The soldiers squeezed themselves to make way | |
for him, but again pressed on him so that they jammed his leg, and those | |
nearest him were not to blame for they were themselves pressed still | |
harder from behind. | |
“Nesvítski, Nesvítski! you numskull!” came a hoarse voice from | |
behind him. | |
Nesvítski looked round and saw, some fifteen paces away but separated | |
by the living mass of moving infantry, Váska Denísov, red and shaggy, | |
with his cap on the back of his black head and a cloak hanging jauntily | |
over his shoulder. | |
“Tell these devils, these fiends, to let me pass!” shouted Denísov | |
evidently in a fit of rage, his coal-black eyes with their bloodshot | |
whites glittering and rolling as he waved his sheathed saber in a small | |
bare hand as red as his face. | |
“Ah, Váska!” joyfully replied Nesvítski. “What’s up with | |
you?” | |
“The squadwon can’t pass,” shouted Váska Denísov, showing his | |
white teeth fiercely and spurring his black thoroughbred Arab, which | |
twitched its ears as the bayonets touched it, and snorted, spurting | |
white foam from his bit, tramping the planks of the bridge with his | |
hoofs, and apparently ready to jump over the railings had his rider let | |
him. “What is this? They’re like sheep! Just like sheep! Out of the | |
way!... Let us pass!... Stop there, you devil with the cart! I’ll hack | |
you with my saber!” he shouted, actually drawing his saber from its | |
scabbard and flourishing it. | |
The soldiers crowded against one another with terrified faces, and | |
Denísov joined Nesvítski. | |
“How’s it you’re not drunk today?” said Nesvítski when the | |
other had ridden up to him. | |
“They don’t even give one time to dwink!” answered Váska | |
Denísov. “They keep dwagging the wegiment to and fwo all day. If they | |
mean to fight, let’s fight. But the devil knows what this is.” | |
“What a dandy you are today!” said Nesvítski, looking at | |
Denísov’s new cloak and saddlecloth. | |
Denísov smiled, took out of his sabretache a handkerchief that diffused | |
a smell of perfume, and put it to Nesvítski’s nose. | |
“Of course. I’m going into action! I’ve shaved, bwushed my teeth, | |
and scented myself.” | |
The imposing figure of Nesvítski followed by his Cossack, and | |
the determination of Denísov who flourished his sword and shouted | |
frantically, had such an effect that they managed to squeeze through | |
to the farther side of the bridge and stopped the infantry. Beside the | |
bridge Nesvítski found the colonel to whom he had to deliver the order, | |
and having done this he rode back. | |
Having cleared the way Denísov stopped at the end of the bridge. | |
Carelessly holding in his stallion that was neighing and pawing the | |
ground, eager to rejoin its fellows, he watched his squadron draw | |
nearer. Then the clang of hoofs, as of several horses galloping, | |
resounded on the planks of the bridge, and the squadron, officers in | |
front and men four abreast, spread across the bridge and began to emerge | |
on his side of it. | |
The infantry who had been stopped crowded near the bridge in the | |
trampled mud and gazed with that particular feeling of ill-will, | |
estrangement, and ridicule with which troops of different arms usually | |
encounter one another at the clean, smart hussars who moved past them in | |
regular order. | |
“Smart lads! Only fit for a fair!” said one. | |
“What good are they? They’re led about just for show!” remarked | |
another. | |
“Don’t kick up the dust, you infantry!” jested an hussar whose | |
prancing horse had splashed mud over some foot soldiers. | |
“I’d like to put you on a two days’ march with a knapsack! Your | |
fine cords would soon get a bit rubbed,” said an infantryman, wiping | |
the mud off his face with his sleeve. “Perched up there, you’re more | |
like a bird than a man.” | |
“There now, Zíkin, they ought to put you on a horse. You’d look | |
fine,” said a corporal, chaffing a thin little soldier who bent under | |
the weight of his knapsack. | |
“Take a stick between your legs, that’ll suit you for a horse!” | |
the hussar shouted back. | |
CHAPTER VIII | |
The last of the infantry hurriedly crossed the bridge, squeezing | |
together as they approached it as if passing through a funnel. At last | |
the baggage wagons had all crossed, the crush was less, and the last | |
battalion came onto the bridge. Only Denísov’s squadron of hussars | |
remained on the farther side of the bridge facing the enemy, who could | |
be seen from the hill on the opposite bank but was not yet visible from | |
the bridge, for the horizon as seen from the valley through which the | |
river flowed was formed by the rising ground only half a mile away. | |
At the foot of the hill lay wasteland over which a few groups of our | |
Cossack scouts were moving. Suddenly on the road at the top of the high | |
ground, artillery and troops in blue uniform were seen. These were the | |
French. A group of Cossack scouts retired down the hill at a trot. All | |
the officers and men of Denísov’s squadron, though they tried to talk | |
of other things and to look in other directions, thought only of what | |
was there on the hilltop, and kept constantly looking at the patches | |
appearing on the skyline, which they knew to be the enemy’s troops. | |
The weather had cleared again since noon and the sun was descending | |
brightly upon the Danube and the dark hills around it. It was calm, and | |
at intervals the bugle calls and the shouts of the enemy could be heard | |
from the hill. There was no one now between the squadron and the enemy | |
except a few scattered skirmishers. An empty space of some seven hundred | |
yards was all that separated them. The enemy ceased firing, and that | |
stern, threatening, inaccessible, and intangible line which separates | |
two hostile armies was all the more clearly felt. | |
“One step beyond that boundary line which resembles the line dividing | |
the living from the dead lies uncertainty, suffering, and death. And | |
what is there? Who is there?—there beyond that field, that tree, that | |
roof lit up by the sun? No one knows, but one wants to know. You fear | |
and yet long to cross that line, and know that sooner or later it must | |
be crossed and you will have to find out what is there, just as you will | |
inevitably have to learn what lies the other side of death. But you are | |
strong, healthy, cheerful, and excited, and are surrounded by other such | |
excitedly animated and healthy men.” So thinks, or at any rate | |
feels, anyone who comes in sight of the enemy, and that feeling gives | |
a particular glamour and glad keenness of impression to everything that | |
takes place at such moments. | |
On the high ground where the enemy was, the smoke of a cannon rose, | |
and a ball flew whistling over the heads of the hussar squadron. The | |
officers who had been standing together rode off to their places. The | |
hussars began carefully aligning their horses. Silence fell on the whole | |
squadron. All were looking at the enemy in front and at the squadron | |
commander, awaiting the word of command. A second and a third cannon | |
ball flew past. Evidently they were firing at the hussars, but the balls | |
with rapid rhythmic whistle flew over the heads of the horsemen and fell | |
somewhere beyond them. The hussars did not look round, but at the sound | |
of each shot, as at the word of command, the whole squadron with its | |
rows of faces so alike yet so different, holding its breath while the | |
ball flew past, rose in the stirrups and sank back again. The soldiers | |
without turning their heads glanced at one another, curious to see their | |
comrades’ impression. Every face, from Denísov’s to that of the | |
bugler, showed one common expression of conflict, irritation, and | |
excitement, around chin and mouth. The quartermaster frowned, looking | |
at the soldiers as if threatening to punish them. Cadet Mirónov ducked | |
every time a ball flew past. Rostóv on the left flank, mounted on his | |
Rook—a handsome horse despite its game leg—had the happy air of a | |
schoolboy called up before a large audience for an examination in which | |
he feels sure he will distinguish himself. He was glancing at everyone | |
with a clear, bright expression, as if asking them to notice how calmly | |
he sat under fire. But despite himself, on his face too that same | |
indication of something new and stern showed round the mouth. | |
“Who’s that curtseying there? Cadet Miwónov! That’s not wight! | |
Look at me,” cried Denísov who, unable to keep still on one spot, | |
kept turning his horse in front of the squadron. | |
The black, hairy, snub-nosed face of Váska Denísov, and his whole | |
short sturdy figure with the sinewy hairy hand and stumpy fingers in | |
which he held the hilt of his naked saber, looked just as it usually | |
did, especially toward evening when he had emptied his second bottle; he | |
was only redder than usual. With his shaggy head thrown back like birds | |
when they drink, pressing his spurs mercilessly into the sides of his | |
good horse, Bedouin, and sitting as though falling backwards in the | |
saddle, he galloped to the other flank of the squadron and shouted in | |
a hoarse voice to the men to look to their pistols. He rode up to | |
Kírsten. The staff captain on his broad-backed, steady mare came at a | |
walk to meet him. His face with its long mustache was serious as always, | |
only his eyes were brighter than usual. | |
“Well, what about it?” said he to Denísov. “It won’t come to a | |
fight. You’ll see—we shall retire.” | |
“The devil only knows what they’re about!” muttered Denísov. | |
“Ah, Wostóv,” he cried noticing the cadet’s bright face, | |
“you’ve got it at last.” | |
And he smiled approvingly, evidently pleased with the cadet. Rostóv | |
felt perfectly happy. Just then the commander appeared on the bridge. | |
Denísov galloped up to him. | |
“Your excellency! Let us attack them! I’ll dwive them off.” | |
“Attack indeed!” said the colonel in a bored voice, puckering up his | |
face as if driving off a troublesome fly. “And why are you stopping | |
here? Don’t you see the skirmishers are retreating? Lead the squadron | |
back.” | |
The squadron crossed the bridge and drew out of range of fire without | |
having lost a single man. The second squadron that had been in the front | |
line followed them across and the last Cossacks quitted the farther side | |
of the river. | |
The two Pávlograd squadrons, having crossed the bridge, retired up the | |
hill one after the other. Their colonel, Karl Bogdánich Schubert, came | |
up to Denísov’s squadron and rode at a footpace not far from Rostóv, | |
without taking any notice of him although they were now meeting for the | |
first time since their encounter concerning Telyánin. Rostóv, feeling | |
that he was at the front and in the power of a man toward whom he now | |
admitted that he had been to blame, did not lift his eyes from the | |
colonel’s athletic back, his nape covered with light hair, and his red | |
neck. It seemed to Rostóv that Bogdánich was only pretending not | |
to notice him, and that his whole aim now was to test the cadet’s | |
courage, so he drew himself up and looked around him merrily; then it | |
seemed to him that Bogdánich rode so near in order to show him his | |
courage. Next he thought that his enemy would send the squadron on a | |
desperate attack just to punish him—Rostóv. Then he imagined how, | |
after the attack, Bogdánich would come up to him as he lay wounded and | |
would magnanimously extend the hand of reconciliation. | |
The high-shouldered figure of Zherkóv, familiar to the Pávlograds as | |
he had but recently left their regiment, rode up to the colonel. | |
After his dismissal from headquarters Zherkóv had not remained in the | |
regiment, saying he was not such a fool as to slave at the front when he | |
could get more rewards by doing nothing on the staff, and had succeeded | |
in attaching himself as an orderly officer to Prince Bagratión. He now | |
came to his former chief with an order from the commander of the rear | |
guard. | |
“Colonel,” he said, addressing Rostóv’s enemy with an air of | |
gloomy gravity and glancing round at his comrades, “there is an order | |
to stop and fire the bridge.” | |
“An order to who?” asked the colonel morosely. | |
“I don’t myself know ‘to who,’” replied the cornet in a | |
serious tone, “but the prince told me to ‘go and tell the colonel | |
that the hussars must return quickly and fire the bridge.’” | |
Zherkóv was followed by an officer of the suite who rode up to the | |
colonel of hussars with the same order. After him the stout Nesvítski | |
came galloping up on a Cossack horse that could scarcely carry his | |
weight. | |
“How’s this, Colonel?” he shouted as he approached. “I told you | |
to fire the bridge, and now someone has gone and blundered; they are all | |
beside themselves over there and one can’t make anything out.” | |
The colonel deliberately stopped the regiment and turned to Nesvítski. | |
“You spoke to me of inflammable material,” said he, “but you said | |
nothing about firing it.” | |
“But, my dear sir,” said Nesvítski as he drew up, taking off his | |
cap and smoothing his hair wet with perspiration with his plump hand, | |
“wasn’t I telling you to fire the bridge, when inflammable material | |
had been put in position?” | |
“I am not your ‘dear sir,’ Mr. Staff Officer, and you did not tell | |
me to burn the bridge! I know the service, and it is my habit orders | |
strictly to obey. You said the bridge would be burned, but who would it | |
burn, I could not know by the holy spirit!” | |
“Ah, that’s always the way!” said Nesvítski with a wave of the | |
hand. “How did you get here?” said he, turning to Zherkóv. | |
“On the same business. But you are damp! Let me wring you out!” | |
“You were saying, Mr. Staff Officer...” continued the colonel in an | |
offended tone. | |
“Colonel,” interrupted the officer of the suite, “You must be | |
quick or the enemy will bring up his guns to use grapeshot.” | |
The colonel looked silently at the officer of the suite, at the stout | |
staff officer, and at Zherkóv, and he frowned. | |
“I will the bridge fire,” he said in a solemn tone as if to announce | |
that in spite of all the unpleasantness he had to endure he would still | |
do the right thing. | |
Striking his horse with his long muscular legs as if it were to blame | |
for everything, the colonel moved forward and ordered the second | |
squadron, that in which Rostóv was serving under Denísov, to return to | |
the bridge. | |
“There, it’s just as I thought,” said Rostóv to himself. “He | |
wishes to test me!” His heart contracted and the blood rushed to his | |
face. “Let him see whether I am a coward!” he thought. | |
Again on all the bright faces of the squadron the serious expression | |
appeared that they had worn when under fire. Rostóv watched his enemy, | |
the colonel, closely—to find in his face confirmation of his own | |
conjecture, but the colonel did not once glance at Rostóv, and looked | |
as he always did when at the front, solemn and stern. Then came the word | |
of command. | |
“Look sharp! Look sharp!” several voices repeated around him. | |
Their sabers catching in the bridles and their spurs jingling, the | |
hussars hastily dismounted, not knowing what they were to do. The men | |
were crossing themselves. Rostóv no longer looked at the colonel, he | |
had no time. He was afraid of falling behind the hussars, so much afraid | |
that his heart stood still. His hand trembled as he gave his horse into | |
an orderly’s charge, and he felt the blood rush to his heart with | |
a thud. Denísov rode past him, leaning back and shouting something. | |
Rostóv saw nothing but the hussars running all around him, their spurs | |
catching and their sabers clattering. | |
“Stretchers!” shouted someone behind him. | |
Rostóv did not think what this call for stretchers meant; he ran on, | |
trying only to be ahead of the others; but just at the bridge, not | |
looking at the ground, he came on some sticky, trodden mud, stumbled, | |
and fell on his hands. The others outstripped him. | |
“At boss zides, Captain,” he heard the voice of the colonel, who, | |
having ridden ahead, had pulled up his horse near the bridge, with a | |
triumphant, cheerful face. | |
Rostóv wiping his muddy hands on his breeches looked at his enemy and | |
was about to run on, thinking that the farther he went to the front | |
the better. But Bogdánich, without looking at or recognizing Rostóv, | |
shouted to him: | |
“Who’s that running on the middle of the bridge? To the right! Come | |
back, Cadet!” he cried angrily; and turning to Denísov, who, showing | |
off his courage, had ridden on to the planks of the bridge: | |
“Why run risks, Captain? You should dismount,” he said. | |
“Oh, every bullet has its billet,” answered Váska Denísov, turning | |
in his saddle. | |
Meanwhile Nesvítski, Zherkóv, and the officer of the suite were | |
standing together out of range of the shots, watching, now the small | |
group of men with yellow shakos, dark-green jackets braided with cord, | |
and blue riding breeches, who were swarming near the bridge, and then at | |
what was approaching in the distance from the opposite side—the blue | |
uniforms and groups with horses, easily recognizable as artillery. | |
“Will they burn the bridge or not? Who’ll get there first? Will they | |
get there and fire the bridge or will the French get within grapeshot | |
range and wipe them out?” These were the questions each man of the | |
troops on the high ground above the bridge involuntarily asked himself | |
with a sinking heart—watching the bridge and the hussars in the bright | |
evening light and the blue tunics advancing from the other side with | |
their bayonets and guns. | |
“Ugh. The hussars will get it hot!” said Nesvítski; “they are | |
within grapeshot range now.” | |
“He shouldn’t have taken so many men,” said the officer of the | |
suite. | |
“True enough,” answered Nesvítski; “two smart fellows could have | |
done the job just as well.” | |
“Ah, your excellency,” put in Zherkóv, his eyes fixed on the | |
hussars, but still with that naïve air that made it impossible to know | |
whether he was speaking in jest or in earnest. “Ah, your excellency! | |
How you look at things! Send two men? And who then would give us the | |
Vladímir medal and ribbon? But now, even if they do get peppered, the | |
squadron may be recommended for honors and he may get a ribbon. Our | |
Bogdánich knows how things are done.” | |
“There now!” said the officer of the suite, “that’s | |
grapeshot.” | |
He pointed to the French guns, the limbers of which were being detached | |
and hurriedly removed. | |
On the French side, amid the groups with cannon, a cloud of smoke | |
appeared, then a second and a third almost simultaneously, and at the | |
moment when the first report was heard a fourth was seen. Then two | |
reports one after another, and a third. | |
“Oh! Oh!” groaned Nesvítski as if in fierce pain, seizing the | |
officer of the suite by the arm. “Look! A man has fallen! Fallen, | |
fallen!” | |
“Two, I think.” | |
“If I were Tsar I would never go to war,” said Nesvítski, turning | |
away. | |
The French guns were hastily reloaded. The infantry in their blue | |
uniforms advanced toward the bridge at a run. Smoke appeared again | |
but at irregular intervals, and grapeshot cracked and rattled onto the | |
bridge. But this time Nesvítski could not see what was happening there, | |
as a dense cloud of smoke arose from it. The hussars had succeeded in | |
setting it on fire and the French batteries were now firing at them, no | |
longer to hinder them but because the guns were trained and there was | |
someone to fire at. | |
The French had time to fire three rounds of grapeshot before the hussars | |
got back to their horses. Two were misdirected and the shot went too | |
high, but the last round fell in the midst of a group of hussars and | |
knocked three of them over. | |
Rostóv, absorbed by his relations with Bogdánich, had paused on the | |
bridge not knowing what to do. There was no one to hew down (as he | |
had always imagined battles to himself), nor could he help to fire the | |
bridge because he had not brought any burning straw with him like the | |
other soldiers. He stood looking about him, when suddenly he heard a | |
rattle on the bridge as if nuts were being spilt, and the hussar nearest | |
to him fell against the rails with a groan. Rostóv ran up to him with | |
the others. Again someone shouted, “Stretchers!” Four men seized the | |
hussar and began lifting him. | |
“Oooh! For Christ’s sake let me alone!” cried the wounded man, but | |
still he was lifted and laid on the stretcher. | |
Nicholas Rostóv turned away and, as if searching for something, gazed | |
into the distance, at the waters of the Danube, at the sky, and at the | |
sun. How beautiful the sky looked; how blue, how calm, and how deep! | |
How bright and glorious was the setting sun! With what soft glitter the | |
waters of the distant Danube shone. And fairer still were the faraway | |
blue mountains beyond the river, the nunnery, the mysterious gorges, and | |
the pine forests veiled in the mist of their summits... There was peace | |
and happiness... “I should wish for nothing else, nothing, if only I | |
were there,” thought Rostóv. “In myself alone and in that sunshine | |
there is so much happiness; but here... groans, suffering, fear, and | |
this uncertainty and hurry... There—they are shouting again, and | |
again are all running back somewhere, and I shall run with them, and it, | |
death, is here above me and around... Another instant and I shall never | |
again see the sun, this water, that gorge!...” | |
At that instant the sun began to hide behind the clouds, and other | |
stretchers came into view before Rostóv. And the fear of death and of | |
the stretchers, and love of the sun and of life, all merged into one | |
feeling of sickening agitation. | |
“O Lord God! Thou who art in that heaven, save, forgive, and protect | |
me!” Rostóv whispered. | |
The hussars ran back to the men who held their horses; their voices | |
sounded louder and calmer, the stretchers disappeared from sight. | |
“Well, fwiend? So you’ve smelt powdah!” shouted Váska Denísov | |
just above his ear. | |
“It’s all over; but I am a coward—yes, a coward!” thought | |
Rostóv, and sighing deeply he took Rook, his horse, which stood resting | |
one foot, from the orderly and began to mount. | |
“Was that grapeshot?” he asked Denísov. | |
“Yes and no mistake!” cried Denísov. “You worked like wegular | |
bwicks and it’s nasty work! An attack’s pleasant work! Hacking | |
away at the dogs! But this sort of thing is the very devil, with them | |
shooting at you like a target.” | |
And Denísov rode up to a group that had stopped near Rostóv, composed | |
of the colonel, Nesvítski, Zherkóv, and the officer from the suite. | |
“Well, it seems that no one has noticed,” thought Rostóv. And this | |
was true. No one had taken any notice, for everyone knew the sensation | |
which the cadet under fire for the first time had experienced. | |
“Here’s something for you to report,” said Zherkóv. “See if I | |
don’t get promoted to a sublieutenancy.” | |
“Inform the prince that I the bridge fired!” said the colonel | |
triumphantly and gaily. | |
“And if he asks about the losses?” | |
“A trifle,” said the colonel in his bass voice: “two hussars | |
wounded, and one knocked out,” he added, unable to restrain a happy | |
smile, and pronouncing the phrase “knocked out” with ringing | |
distinctness. | |
CHAPTER IX | |
Pursued by the French army of a hundred thousand men under the command | |
of Bonaparte, encountering a population that was unfriendly to it, | |
losing confidence in its allies, suffering from shortness of supplies, | |
and compelled to act under conditions of war unlike anything that had | |
been foreseen, the Russian army of thirty-five thousand men commanded | |
by Kutúzov was hurriedly retreating along the Danube, stopping where | |
overtaken by the enemy and fighting rearguard actions only as far as | |
necessary to enable it to retreat without losing its heavy equipment. | |
There had been actions at Lambach, Amstetten, and Melk; but despite the | |
courage and endurance—acknowledged even by the enemy—with which the | |
Russians fought, the only consequence of these actions was a yet more | |
rapid retreat. Austrian troops that had escaped capture at Ulm and had | |
joined Kutúzov at Braunau now separated from the Russian army, and | |
Kutúzov was left with only his own weak and exhausted forces. The | |
defense of Vienna was no longer to be thought of. Instead of an | |
offensive, the plan of which, carefully prepared in accord with the | |
modern science of strategics, had been handed to Kutúzov when he was in | |
Vienna by the Austrian Hofkriegsrath, the sole and almost unattainable | |
aim remaining for him was to effect a junction with the forces that were | |
advancing from Russia, without losing his army as Mack had done at Ulm. | |
On the twenty-eighth of October Kutúzov with his army crossed to the | |
left bank of the Danube and took up a position for the first time | |
with the river between himself and the main body of the French. On the | |
thirtieth he attacked Mortier’s division, which was on the left bank, | |
and broke it up. In this action for the first time trophies were taken: | |
banners, cannon, and two enemy generals. For the first time, after a | |
fortnight’s retreat, the Russian troops had halted and after a fight | |
had not only held the field but had repulsed the French. Though the | |
troops were ill-clad, exhausted, and had lost a third of their number | |
in killed, wounded, sick, and stragglers; though a number of sick and | |
wounded had been abandoned on the other side of the Danube with a letter | |
in which Kutúzov entrusted them to the humanity of the enemy; and | |
though the big hospitals and the houses in Krems converted into military | |
hospitals could no longer accommodate all the sick and wounded, yet the | |
stand made at Krems and the victory over Mortier raised the spirits of | |
the army considerably. Throughout the whole army and at headquarters | |
most joyful though erroneous rumors were rife of the imaginary approach | |
of columns from Russia, of some victory gained by the Austrians, and of | |
the retreat of the frightened Bonaparte. | |
Prince Andrew during the battle had been in attendance on the Austrian | |
General Schmidt, who was killed in the action. His horse had been | |
wounded under him and his own arm slightly grazed by a bullet. As a mark | |
of the commander in chief’s special favor he was sent with the news of | |
this victory to the Austrian court, now no longer at Vienna (which was | |
threatened by the French) but at Brünn. Despite his apparently delicate | |
build Prince Andrew could endure physical fatigue far better than many | |
very muscular men, and on the night of the battle, having arrived | |
at Krems excited but not weary, with dispatches from Dokhtúrov to | |
Kutúzov, he was sent immediately with a special dispatch to Brünn. | |
To be so sent meant not only a reward but an important step toward | |
promotion. | |
The night was dark but starry, the road showed black in the snow that | |
had fallen the previous day—the day of the battle. Reviewing his | |
impressions of the recent battle, picturing pleasantly to himself the | |
impression his news of a victory would create, or recalling the send-off | |
given him by the commander in chief and his fellow officers, Prince | |
Andrew was galloping along in a post chaise enjoying the feelings of a | |
man who has at length begun to attain a long-desired happiness. As soon | |
as he closed his eyes his ears seemed filled with the rattle of the | |
wheels and the sensation of victory. Then he began to imagine that | |
the Russians were running away and that he himself was killed, but he | |
quickly roused himself with a feeling of joy, as if learning afresh that | |
this was not so but that on the contrary the French had run away. He | |
again recalled all the details of the victory and his own calm courage | |
during the battle, and feeling reassured he dozed off.... The dark | |
starry night was followed by a bright cheerful morning. The snow was | |
thawing in the sunshine, the horses galloped quickly, and on both sides | |
of the road were forests of different kinds, fields, and villages. | |
At one of the post stations he overtook a convoy of Russian wounded. | |
The Russian officer in charge of the transport lolled back in the front | |
cart, shouting and scolding a soldier with coarse abuse. In each of | |
the long German carts six or more pale, dirty, bandaged men were being | |
jolted over the stony road. Some of them were talking (he heard Russian | |
words), others were eating bread; the more severely wounded looked | |
silently, with the languid interest of sick children, at the envoy | |
hurrying past them. | |
Prince Andrew told his driver to stop, and asked a soldier in what | |
action they had been wounded. “Day before yesterday, on the Danube,” | |
answered the soldier. Prince Andrew took out his purse and gave the | |
soldier three gold pieces. | |
“That’s for them all,” he said to the officer who came up. | |
“Get well soon, lads!” he continued, turning to the soldiers. | |
“There’s plenty to do still.” | |
“What news, sir?” asked the officer, evidently anxious to start a | |
conversation. | |
“Good news!... Go on!” he shouted to the driver, and they galloped | |
on. | |
It was already quite dark when Prince Andrew rattled over the paved | |
streets of Brünn and found himself surrounded by high buildings, the | |
lights of shops, houses, and street lamps, fine carriages, and all that | |
atmosphere of a large and active town which is always so attractive to a | |
soldier after camp life. Despite his rapid journey and sleepless night, | |
Prince Andrew when he drove up to the palace felt even more vigorous and | |
alert than he had done the day before. Only his eyes gleamed feverishly | |
and his thoughts followed one another with extraordinary clearness and | |
rapidity. He again vividly recalled the details of the battle, no longer | |
dim, but definite and in the concise form in which he imagined himself | |
stating them to the Emperor Francis. He vividly imagined the casual | |
questions that might be put to him and the answers he would give. He | |
expected to be at once presented to the Emperor. At the chief entrance | |
to the palace, however, an official came running out to meet him, and | |
learning that he was a special messenger led him to another entrance. | |
“To the right from the corridor, Euer Hochgeboren! There you will find | |
the adjutant on duty,” said the official. “He will conduct you to | |
the Minister of War.” | |
The adjutant on duty, meeting Prince Andrew, asked him to wait, and went | |
in to the Minister of War. Five minutes later he returned and bowing | |
with particular courtesy ushered Prince Andrew before him along a | |
corridor to the cabinet where the Minister of War was at work. The | |
adjutant by his elaborate courtesy appeared to wish to ward off any | |
attempt at familiarity on the part of the Russian messenger. | |
Prince Andrew’s joyous feeling was considerably weakened as he | |
approached the door of the minister’s room. He felt offended, and | |
without his noticing it the feeling of offense immediately turned into | |
one of disdain which was quite uncalled for. His fertile mind instantly | |
suggested to him a point of view which gave him a right to despise | |
the adjutant and the minister. “Away from the smell of powder, they | |
probably think it easy to gain victories!” he thought. His eyes | |
narrowed disdainfully, he entered the room of the Minister of War with | |
peculiarly deliberate steps. This feeling of disdain was heightened | |
when he saw the minister seated at a large table reading some papers | |
and making pencil notes on them, and for the first two or three minutes | |
taking no notice of his arrival. A wax candle stood at each side of the | |
minister’s bent bald head with its gray temples. He went on reading | |
to the end, without raising his eyes at the opening of the door and the | |
sound of footsteps. | |
“Take this and deliver it,” said he to his adjutant, handing him the | |
papers and still taking no notice of the special messenger. | |
Prince Andrew felt that either the actions of Kutúzov’s army | |
interested the Minister of War less than any of the other matters he was | |
concerned with, or he wanted to give the Russian special messenger that | |
impression. “But that is a matter of perfect indifference to me,” he | |
thought. The minister drew the remaining papers together, arranged them | |
evenly, and then raised his head. He had an intellectual and distinctive | |
head, but the instant he turned to Prince Andrew the firm, intelligent | |
expression on his face changed in a way evidently deliberate and | |
habitual to him. His face took on the stupid artificial smile (which | |
does not even attempt to hide its artificiality) of a man who is | |
continually receiving many petitioners one after another. | |
“From General Field Marshal Kutúzov?” he asked. “I hope it is | |
good news? There has been an encounter with Mortier? A victory? It was | |
high time!” | |
He took the dispatch which was addressed to him and began to read it | |
with a mournful expression. | |
“Oh, my God! My God! Schmidt!” he exclaimed in German. “What a | |
calamity! What a calamity!” | |
Having glanced through the dispatch he laid it on the table and looked | |
at Prince Andrew, evidently considering something. | |
“Ah what a calamity! You say the affair was decisive? But Mortier is | |
not captured.” Again he pondered. “I am very glad you have brought | |
good news, though Schmidt’s death is a heavy price to pay for the | |
victory. His Majesty will no doubt wish to see you, but not today. I | |
thank you! You must have a rest. Be at the levee tomorrow after the | |
parade. However, I will let you know.” | |
The stupid smile, which had left his face while he was speaking, | |
reappeared. | |
“Au revoir! Thank you very much. His Majesty will probably desire to | |
see you,” he added, bowing his head. | |
When Prince Andrew left the palace he felt that all the interest | |
and happiness the victory had afforded him had been now left in the | |
indifferent hands of the Minister of War and the polite adjutant. The | |
whole tenor of his thoughts instantaneously changed; the battle seemed | |
the memory of a remote event long past. | |
CHAPTER X | |
Prince Andrew stayed at Brünn with Bilíbin, a Russian acquaintance of | |
his in the diplomatic service. | |
“Ah, my dear prince! I could not have a more welcome visitor,” | |
said Bilíbin as he came out to meet Prince Andrew. “Franz, put the | |
prince’s things in my bedroom,” said he to the servant who was | |
ushering Bolkónski in. “So you’re a messenger of victory, eh? | |
Splendid! And I am sitting here ill, as you see.” | |
After washing and dressing, Prince Andrew came into the diplomat’s | |
luxurious study and sat down to the dinner prepared for him. Bilíbin | |
settled down comfortably beside the fire. | |
After his journey and the campaign during which he had been deprived of | |
all the comforts of cleanliness and all the refinements of life, Prince | |
Andrew felt a pleasant sense of repose among luxurious surroundings such | |
as he had been accustomed to from childhood. Besides it was pleasant, | |
after his reception by the Austrians, to speak if not in Russian | |
(for they were speaking French) at least with a Russian who would, he | |
supposed, share the general Russian antipathy to the Austrians which was | |
then particularly strong. | |
Bilíbin was a man of thirty-five, a bachelor, and of the same circle as | |
Prince Andrew. They had known each other previously in Petersburg, but | |
had become more intimate when Prince Andrew was in Vienna with Kutúzov. | |
Just as Prince Andrew was a young man who gave promise of rising high | |
in the military profession, so to an even greater extent Bilíbin gave | |
promise of rising in his diplomatic career. He was still a young man but | |
no longer a young diplomat, as he had entered the service at the age | |
of sixteen, had been in Paris and Copenhagen, and now held a rather | |
important post in Vienna. Both the foreign minister and our ambassador | |
in Vienna knew him and valued him. He was not one of those many | |
diplomats who are esteemed because they have certain negative qualities, | |
avoid doing certain things, and speak French. He was one of those, | |
who, liking work, knew how to do it, and despite his indolence would | |
sometimes spend a whole night at his writing table. He worked well | |
whatever the import of his work. It was not the question “What for?” | |
but the question “How?” that interested him. What the diplomatic | |
matter might be he did not care, but it gave him great pleasure to | |
prepare a circular, memorandum, or report, skillfully, pointedly, and | |
elegantly. Bilíbin’s services were valued not only for what he wrote, | |
but also for his skill in dealing and conversing with those in the | |
highest spheres. | |
Bilíbin liked conversation as he liked work, only when it could be | |
made elegantly witty. In society he always awaited an opportunity to say | |
something striking and took part in a conversation only when that was | |
possible. His conversation was always sprinkled with wittily original, | |
finished phrases of general interest. These sayings were prepared in the | |
inner laboratory of his mind in a portable form as if intentionally, so | |
that insignificant society people might carry them from drawing room to | |
drawing room. And, in fact, Bilíbin’s witticisms were hawked about | |
in the Viennese drawing rooms and often had an influence on matters | |
considered important. | |
His thin, worn, sallow face was covered with deep wrinkles, which always | |
looked as clean and well washed as the tips of one’s fingers after a | |
Russian bath. The movement of these wrinkles formed the principal play | |
of expression on his face. Now his forehead would pucker into deep folds | |
and his eyebrows were lifted, then his eyebrows would descend and | |
deep wrinkles would crease his cheeks. His small, deep-set eyes always | |
twinkled and looked out straight. | |
“Well, now tell me about your exploits,” said he. | |
Bolkónski, very modestly without once mentioning himself, described the | |
engagement and his reception by the Minister of War. | |
“They received me and my news as one receives a dog in a game of | |
skittles,” said he in conclusion. | |
Bilíbin smiled and the wrinkles on his face disappeared. | |
“Cependant, mon cher,” he remarked, examining his nails from a | |
distance and puckering the skin above his left eye, “malgré la haute | |
estime que je professe pour the Orthodox Russian army, j’avoue que | |
votre victoire n’est pas des plus victorieuses.” * | |
* “But my dear fellow, with all my respect for the Orthodox | |
Russian army, I must say that your victory was not | |
particularly victorious.” | |
He went on talking in this way in French, uttering only those words in | |
Russian on which he wished to put a contemptuous emphasis. | |
“Come now! You with all your forces fall on the unfortunate Mortier | |
and his one division, and even then Mortier slips through your fingers! | |
Where’s the victory?” | |
“But seriously,” said Prince Andrew, “we can at any rate say | |
without boasting that it was a little better than at Ulm...” | |
“Why didn’t you capture one, just one, marshal for us?” | |
“Because not everything happens as one expects or with the smoothness | |
of a parade. We had expected, as I told you, to get at their rear by | |
seven in the morning but had not reached it by five in the afternoon.” | |
“And why didn’t you do it at seven in the morning? You ought to have | |
been there at seven in the morning,” returned Bilíbin with a smile. | |
“You ought to have been there at seven in the morning.” | |
“Why did you not succeed in impressing on Bonaparte by diplomatic | |
methods that he had better leave Genoa alone?” retorted Prince Andrew | |
in the same tone. | |
“I know,” interrupted Bilíbin, “you’re thinking it’s very | |
easy to take marshals, sitting on a sofa by the fire! That is true, but | |
still why didn’t you capture him? So don’t be surprised if not only | |
the Minister of War but also his Most August Majesty the Emperor and | |
King Francis is not much delighted by your victory. Even I, a poor | |
secretary of the Russian Embassy, do not feel any need in token of my | |
joy to give my Franz a thaler, or let him go with his Liebchen to the | |
Prater... True, we have no Prater here...” | |
He looked straight at Prince Andrew and suddenly unwrinkled his | |
forehead. | |
“It is now my turn to ask you ‘why?’ mon cher,” said Bolkónski. | |
“I confess I do not understand: perhaps there are diplomatic | |
subtleties here beyond my feeble intelligence, but I can’t make it | |
out. Mack loses a whole army, the Archduke Ferdinand and the Archduke | |
Karl give no signs of life and make blunder after blunder. Kutúzov | |
alone at last gains a real victory, destroying the spell of the | |
invincibility of the French, and the Minister of War does not even care | |
to hear the details.” | |
“That’s just it, my dear fellow. You see it’s hurrah for the Tsar, | |
for Russia, for the Orthodox Greek faith! All that is beautiful, but | |
what do we, I mean the Austrian court, care for your victories? Bring | |
us nice news of a victory by the Archduke Karl or Ferdinand (one | |
archduke’s as good as another, as you know) and even if it is only | |
over a fire brigade of Bonaparte’s, that will be another story and | |
we’ll fire off some cannon! But this sort of thing seems done | |
on purpose to vex us. The Archduke Karl does nothing, the Archduke | |
Ferdinand disgraces himself. You abandon Vienna, give up its | |
defense—as much as to say: ‘Heaven is with us, but heaven help you | |
and your capital!’ The one general whom we all loved, Schmidt, you | |
expose to a bullet, and then you congratulate us on the victory! Admit | |
that more irritating news than yours could not have been conceived. | |
It’s as if it had been done on purpose, on purpose. Besides, suppose | |
you did gain a brilliant victory, if even the Archduke Karl gained a | |
victory, what effect would that have on the general course of events? | |
It’s too late now when Vienna is occupied by the French army!” | |
“What? Occupied? Vienna occupied?” | |
“Not only occupied, but Bonaparte is at Schönbrunn, and the count, | |
our dear Count Vrbna, goes to him for orders.” | |
After the fatigues and impressions of the journey, his reception, and | |
especially after having dined, Bolkónski felt that he could not take in | |
the full significance of the words he heard. | |
“Count Lichtenfels was here this morning,” Bilíbin continued, | |
“and showed me a letter in which the parade of the French in Vienna | |
was fully described: Prince Murat et tout le tremblement... You see that | |
your victory is not a matter for great rejoicing and that you can’t be | |
received as a savior.” | |
“Really I don’t care about that, I don’t care at all,” said | |
Prince Andrew, beginning to understand that his news of the battle | |
before Krems was really of small importance in view of such events as | |
the fall of Austria’s capital. “How is it Vienna was taken? What of | |
the bridge and its celebrated bridgehead and Prince Auersperg? We heard | |
reports that Prince Auersperg was defending Vienna?” he said. | |
“Prince Auersperg is on this, on our side of the river, and is | |
defending us—doing it very badly, I think, but still he is defending | |
us. But Vienna is on the other side. No, the bridge has not yet been | |
taken and I hope it will not be, for it is mined and orders have been | |
given to blow it up. Otherwise we should long ago have been in the | |
mountains of Bohemia, and you and your army would have spent a bad | |
quarter of an hour between two fires.” | |
“But still this does not mean that the campaign is over,” said | |
Prince Andrew. | |
“Well, I think it is. The bigwigs here think so too, but they | |
daren’t say so. It will be as I said at the beginning of the campaign, | |
it won’t be your skirmishing at Dürrenstein, or gunpowder at all, | |
that will decide the matter, but those who devised it,” said Bilíbin | |
quoting one of his own mots, releasing the wrinkles on his forehead, and | |
pausing. “The only question is what will come of the meeting between | |
the Emperor Alexander and the King of Prussia in Berlin? If Prussia | |
joins the Allies, Austria’s hand will be forced and there will be war. | |
If not it is merely a question of settling where the preliminaries of | |
the new Campo Formio are to be drawn up.” | |
“What an extraordinary genius!” Prince Andrew suddenly exclaimed, | |
clenching his small hand and striking the table with it, “and what | |
luck the man has!” | |
“Buonaparte?” said Bilíbin inquiringly, puckering up his forehead | |
to indicate that he was about to say something witty. “Buonaparte?” | |
he repeated, accentuating the u: “I think, however, now that he lays | |
down laws for Austria at Schönbrunn, il faut lui faire grâce de | |
l’u! * I shall certainly adopt an innovation and call him simply | |
Bonaparte!” | |
* “We must let him off the u!” | |
“But joking apart,” said Prince Andrew, “do you really think the | |
campaign is over?” | |
“This is what I think. Austria has been made a fool of, and she is | |
not used to it. She will retaliate. And she has been fooled in the | |
first place because her provinces have been pillaged—they say the Holy | |
Russian army loots terribly—her army is destroyed, her capital | |
taken, and all this for the beaux yeux * of His Sardinian Majesty. And | |
therefore—this is between ourselves—I instinctively feel that we | |
are being deceived, my instinct tells me of negotiations with France and | |
projects for peace, a secret peace concluded separately.” | |
* Fine eyes. | |
“Impossible!” cried Prince Andrew. “That would be too base.” | |
“If we live we shall see,” replied Bilíbin, his face again becoming | |
smooth as a sign that the conversation was at an end. | |
When Prince Andrew reached the room prepared for him and lay down in a | |
clean shirt on the feather bed with its warmed and fragrant pillows, he | |
felt that the battle of which he had brought tidings was far, far | |
away from him. The alliance with Prussia, Austria’s treachery, | |
Bonaparte’s new triumph, tomorrow’s levee and parade, and the | |
audience with the Emperor Francis occupied his thoughts. | |
He closed his eyes, and immediately a sound of cannonading, of musketry | |
and the rattling of carriage wheels seemed to fill his ears, and now | |
again drawn out in a thin line the musketeers were descending the hill, | |
the French were firing, and he felt his heart palpitating as he rode | |
forward beside Schmidt with the bullets merrily whistling all around, | |
and he experienced tenfold the joy of living, as he had not done since | |
childhood. | |
He woke up... | |
“Yes, that all happened!” he said, and, smiling happily to himself | |
like a child, he fell into a deep, youthful slumber. | |
CHAPTER XI | |
Next day he woke late. Recalling his recent impressions, the first | |
thought that came into his mind was that today he had to be presented | |
to the Emperor Francis; he remembered the Minister of War, the polite | |
Austrian adjutant, Bilíbin, and last night’s conversation. Having | |
dressed for his attendance at court in full parade uniform, which he | |
had not worn for a long time, he went into Bilíbin’s study fresh, | |
animated, and handsome, with his hand bandaged. In the study were four | |
gentlemen of the diplomatic corps. With Prince Hippolyte Kurágin, | |
who was a secretary to the embassy, Bolkónski was already acquainted. | |
Bilíbin introduced him to the others. | |
The gentlemen assembled at Bilíbin’s were young, wealthy, gay society | |
men, who here, as in Vienna, formed a special set which Bilíbin, their | |
leader, called les nôtres. * This set, consisting almost exclusively of | |
diplomats, evidently had its own interests which had nothing to do with | |
war or politics but related to high society, to certain women, and to | |
the official side of the service. These gentlemen received Prince | |
Andrew as one of themselves, an honor they did not extend to many. From | |
politeness and to start conversation, they asked him a few questions | |
about the army and the battle, and then the talk went off into merry | |
jests and gossip. | |
* Ours. | |
“But the best of it was,” said one, telling of the misfortune of | |
a fellow diplomat, “that the Chancellor told him flatly that his | |
appointment to London was a promotion and that he was so to regard it. | |
Can you fancy the figure he cut?...” | |
“But the worst of it, gentlemen—I am giving Kurágin away to | |
you—is that that man suffers, and this Don Juan, wicked fellow, is | |
taking advantage of it!” | |
Prince Hippolyte was lolling in a lounge chair with his legs over its | |
arm. He began to laugh. | |
“Tell me about that!” he said. | |
“Oh, you Don Juan! You serpent!” cried several voices. | |
“You, Bolkónski, don’t know,” said Bilíbin turning to Prince | |
Andrew, “that all the atrocities of the French army (I nearly said of | |
the Russian army) are nothing compared to what this man has been doing | |
among the women!” | |
“La femme est la compagne de l’homme,” * announced Prince | |
Hippolyte, and began looking through a lorgnette at his elevated legs. | |
* “Woman is man’s companion.” | |
Bilíbin and the rest of “ours” burst out laughing in Hippolyte’s | |
face, and Prince Andrew saw that Hippolyte, of whom—he had to | |
admit—he had almost been jealous on his wife’s account, was the butt | |
of this set. | |
“Oh, I must give you a treat,” Bilíbin whispered to Bolkónski. | |
“Kurágin is exquisite when he discusses politics—you should see his | |
gravity!” | |
He sat down beside Hippolyte and wrinkling his forehead began talking | |
to him about politics. Prince Andrew and the others gathered round these | |
two. | |
“The Berlin cabinet cannot express a feeling of alliance,” began | |
Hippolyte gazing round with importance at the others, “without | |
expressing... as in its last note... you understand... Besides, unless | |
His Majesty the Emperor derogates from the principle of our alliance... | |
“Wait, I have not finished...” he said to Prince Andrew, seizing | |
him by the arm, “I believe that intervention will be stronger than | |
nonintervention. And...” he paused. “Finally one cannot impute the | |
nonreceipt of our dispatch of November 18. That is how it will end.” | |
And he released Bolkónski’s arm to indicate that he had now quite | |
finished. | |
“Demosthenes, I know thee by the pebble thou secretest in thy golden | |
mouth!” said Bilíbin, and the mop of hair on his head moved with | |
satisfaction. | |
Everybody laughed, and Hippolyte louder than anyone. He was evidently | |
distressed, and breathed painfully, but could not restrain the wild | |
laughter that convulsed his usually impassive features. | |
“Well now, gentlemen,” said Bilíbin, “Bolkónski is my guest in | |
this house and in Brünn itself. I want to entertain him as far as I | |
can, with all the pleasures of life here. If we were in Vienna it would | |
be easy, but here, in this wretched Moravian hole, it is more difficult, | |
and I beg you all to help me. Brünn’s attractions must be shown him. | |
You can undertake the theater, I society, and you, Hippolyte, of course | |
the women.” | |
“We must let him see Amelie, she’s exquisite!” said one of | |
“ours,” kissing his finger tips. | |
“In general we must turn this bloodthirsty soldier to more humane | |
interests,” said Bilíbin. | |
“I shall scarcely be able to avail myself of your hospitality, | |
gentlemen, it is already time for me to go,” replied Prince Andrew | |
looking at his watch. | |
“Where to?” | |
“To the Emperor.” | |
“Oh! Oh! Oh!” | |
“Well, au revoir, Bolkónski! Au revoir, Prince! Come back early to | |
dinner,” cried several voices. “We’ll take you in hand.” | |
“When speaking to the Emperor, try as far as you can to praise the way | |
that provisions are supplied and the routes indicated,” said Bilíbin, | |
accompanying him to the hall. | |
“I should like to speak well of them, but as far as I know the facts, | |
I can’t,” replied Bolkónski, smiling. | |
“Well, talk as much as you can, anyway. He has a passion for giving | |
audiences, but he does not like talking himself and can’t do it, as | |
you will see.” | |
CHAPTER XII | |
At the levee Prince Andrew stood among the Austrian officers as he had | |
been told to, and the Emperor Francis merely looked fixedly into his | |
face and just nodded to him with his long head. But after it was | |
over, the adjutant he had seen the previous day ceremoniously informed | |
Bolkónski that the Emperor desired to give him an audience. The Emperor | |
Francis received him standing in the middle of the room. Before the | |
conversation began Prince Andrew was struck by the fact that the Emperor | |
seemed confused and blushed as if not knowing what to say. | |
“Tell me, when did the battle begin?” he asked hurriedly. | |
Prince Andrew replied. Then followed other questions just as simple: | |
“Was Kutúzov well? When had he left Krems?” and so on. The Emperor | |
spoke as if his sole aim were to put a given number of questions—the | |
answers to these questions, as was only too evident, did not interest | |
him. | |
“At what o’clock did the battle begin?” asked the Emperor. | |
“I cannot inform Your Majesty at what o’clock the battle began at | |
the front, but at Dürrenstein, where I was, our attack began after | |
five in the afternoon,” replied Bolkónski growing more animated and | |
expecting that he would have a chance to give a reliable account, which | |
he had ready in his mind, of all he knew and had seen. But the Emperor | |
smiled and interrupted him. | |
“How many miles?” | |
“From where to where, Your Majesty?” | |
“From Dürrenstein to Krems.” | |
“Three and a half miles, Your Majesty.” | |
“The French have abandoned the left bank?” | |
“According to the scouts the last of them crossed on rafts during the | |
night.” | |
“Is there sufficient forage in Krems?” | |
“Forage has not been supplied to the extent...” | |
The Emperor interrupted him. | |
“At what o’clock was General Schmidt killed?” | |
“At seven o’clock, I believe.” | |
“At seven o’clock? It’s very sad, very sad!” | |
The Emperor thanked Prince Andrew and bowed. Prince Andrew withdrew and | |
was immediately surrounded by courtiers on all sides. Everywhere he | |
saw friendly looks and heard friendly words. Yesterday’s adjutant | |
reproached him for not having stayed at the palace, and offered him | |
his own house. The Minister of War came up and congratulated him on the | |
Maria Theresa Order of the third grade, which the Emperor was conferring | |
on him. The Empress’ chamberlain invited him to see Her Majesty. The | |
archduchess also wished to see him. He did not know whom to answer, and | |
for a few seconds collected his thoughts. Then the Russian ambassador | |
took him by the shoulder, led him to the window, and began to talk to | |
him. | |
Contrary to Bilíbin’s forecast the news he had brought was joyfully | |
received. A thanksgiving service was arranged, Kutúzov was awarded | |
the Grand Cross of Maria Theresa, and the whole army received rewards. | |
Bolkónski was invited everywhere, and had to spend the whole morning | |
calling on the principal Austrian dignitaries. Between four and five | |
in the afternoon, having made all his calls, he was returning to | |
Bilíbin’s house thinking out a letter to his father about the battle | |
and his visit to Brünn. At the door he found a vehicle half full of | |
luggage. Franz, Bilíbin’s man, was dragging a portmanteau with some | |
difficulty out of the front door. | |
Before returning to Bilíbin’s Prince Andrew had gone to a bookshop | |
to provide himself with some books for the campaign, and had spent some | |
time in the shop. | |
“What is it?” he asked. | |
“Oh, your excellency!” said Franz, with difficulty rolling the | |
portmanteau into the vehicle, “we are to move on still farther. The | |
scoundrel is again at our heels!” | |
“Eh? What?” asked Prince Andrew. | |
Bilíbin came out to meet him. His usually calm face showed excitement. | |
“There now! Confess that this is delightful,” said he. “This | |
affair of the Thabor Bridge, at Vienna.... They have crossed without | |
striking a blow!” | |
Prince Andrew could not understand. | |
“But where do you come from not to know what every coachman in the | |
town knows?” | |
“I come from the archduchess’. I heard nothing there.” | |
“And you didn’t see that everybody is packing up?” | |
“I did not... What is it all about?” inquired Prince Andrew | |
impatiently. | |
“What’s it all about? Why, the French have crossed the bridge that | |
Auersperg was defending, and the bridge was not blown up: so Murat | |
is now rushing along the road to Brünn and will be here in a day or | |
two.” | |
“What? Here? But why did they not blow up the bridge, if it was | |
mined?” | |
“That is what I ask you. No one, not even Bonaparte, knows why.” | |
Bolkónski shrugged his shoulders. | |
“But if the bridge is crossed it means that the army too is lost? It | |
will be cut off,” said he. | |
“That’s just it,” answered Bilíbin. “Listen! The French entered | |
Vienna as I told you. Very well. Next day, which was yesterday, those | |
gentlemen, messieurs les maréchaux, * Murat, Lannes, and Belliard, | |
mount and ride to the bridge. (Observe that all three are Gascons.) | |
‘Gentlemen,’ says one of them, ‘you know the Thabor Bridge is | |
mined and doubly mined and that there are menacing fortifications at its | |
head and an army of fifteen thousand men has been ordered to blow up | |
the bridge and not let us cross? But it will please our sovereign the | |
Emperor Napoleon if we take this bridge, so let us three go and take | |
it!’ ‘Yes, let’s!’ say the others. And off they go and take the | |
bridge, cross it, and now with their whole army are on this side of the | |
Danube, marching on us, you, and your lines of communication.” | |
* The marshalls. | |
“Stop jesting,” said Prince Andrew sadly and seriously. This news | |
grieved him and yet he was pleased. | |
As soon as he learned that the Russian army was in such a hopeless | |
situation it occurred to him that it was he who was destined to lead it | |
out of this position; that here was the Toulon that would lift him from | |
the ranks of obscure officers and offer him the first step to fame! | |
Listening to Bilíbin he was already imagining how on reaching the army | |
he would give an opinion at the war council which would be the only one | |
that could save the army, and how he alone would be entrusted with the | |
executing of the plan. | |
“Stop this jesting,” he said. | |
“I am not jesting,” Bilíbin went on. “Nothing is truer or sadder. | |
These gentlemen ride onto the bridge alone and wave white handkerchiefs; | |
they assure the officer on duty that they, the marshals, are on | |
their way to negotiate with Prince Auersperg. He lets them enter the | |
tête-de-pont. * They spin him a thousand gasconades, saying that | |
the war is over, that the Emperor Francis is arranging a meeting with | |
Bonaparte, that they desire to see Prince Auersperg, and so on. The | |
officer sends for Auersperg; these gentlemen embrace the officers, crack | |
jokes, sit on the cannon, and meanwhile a French battalion gets to | |
the bridge unobserved, flings the bags of incendiary material into | |
the water, and approaches the tête-de-pont. At length appears the | |
lieutenant general, our dear Prince Auersperg von Mautern himself. | |
‘Dearest foe! Flower of the Austrian army, hero of the Turkish wars! | |
Hostilities are ended, we can shake one another’s hand.... The | |
Emperor Napoleon burns with impatience to make Prince Auersperg’s | |
acquaintance.’ In a word, those gentlemen, Gascons indeed, so | |
bewildered him with fine words, and he is so flattered by his rapidly | |
established intimacy with the French marshals, and so dazzled by the | |
sight of Murat’s mantle and ostrich plumes, qu’il n’y voit que du | |
feu, et oublie celui qu’il devait faire faire sur l’ennemi!” *(2) | |
In spite of the animation of his speech, Bilíbin did not forget to | |
pause after this mot to give time for its due appreciation. “The | |
French battalion rushes to the bridgehead, spikes the guns, and the | |
bridge is taken! But what is best of all,” he went on, his excitement | |
subsiding under the delightful interest of his own story, “is that the | |
sergeant in charge of the cannon which was to give the signal to fire | |
the mines and blow up the bridge, this sergeant, seeing that the French | |
troops were running onto the bridge, was about to fire, but Lannes | |
stayed his hand. The sergeant, who was evidently wiser than his general, | |
goes up to Auersperg and says: ‘Prince, you are being deceived, here | |
are the French!’ Murat, seeing that all is lost if the sergeant is | |
allowed to speak, turns to Auersperg with feigned astonishment (he is a | |
true Gascon) and says: ‘I don’t recognize the world-famous Austrian | |
discipline, if you allow a subordinate to address you like that!’ It | |
was a stroke of genius. Prince Auersperg feels his dignity at stake and | |
orders the sergeant to be arrested. Come, you must own that this affair | |
of the Thabor Bridge is delightful! It is not exactly stupidity, nor | |
rascality....” | |
* Bridgehead. | |
* (2) That their fire gets into his eyes and he forgets that | |
he ought to be firing at the enemy. | |
“It may be treachery,” said Prince Andrew, vividly imagining the | |
gray overcoats, wounds, the smoke of gunpowder, the sounds of firing, | |
and the glory that awaited him. | |
“Not that either. That puts the court in too bad a light,” replied | |
Bilíbin. “It’s not treachery nor rascality nor stupidity: it is | |
just as at Ulm... it is...”—he seemed to be trying to find the right | |
expression. “C’est... c’est du Mack. Nous sommes mackés (It is... | |
it is a bit of Mack. We are Macked),” he concluded, feeling that he | |
had produced a good epigram, a fresh one that would be repeated. His | |
hitherto puckered brow became smooth as a sign of pleasure, and with a | |
slight smile he began to examine his nails. | |
“Where are you off to?” he said suddenly to Prince Andrew who had | |
risen and was going toward his room. | |
“I am going away.” | |
“Where to?” | |
“To the army.” | |
“But you meant to stay another two days?” | |
“But now I am off at once.” | |
And Prince Andrew after giving directions about his departure went to | |
his room. | |
“Do you know, mon cher,” said Bilíbin following him, “I have been | |
thinking about you. Why are you going?” | |
And in proof of the conclusiveness of his opinion all the wrinkles | |
vanished from his face. | |
Prince Andrew looked inquiringly at him and gave no reply. | |
“Why are you going? I know you think it your duty to gallop back to | |
the army now that it is in danger. I understand that. Mon cher, it is | |
heroism!” | |
“Not at all,” said Prince Andrew. | |
“But as you are a philosopher, be a consistent one, look at the other | |
side of the question and you will see that your duty, on the contrary, | |
is to take care of yourself. Leave it to those who are no longer fit for | |
anything else.... You have not been ordered to return and have not been | |
dismissed from here; therefore, you can stay and go with us wherever our | |
ill luck takes us. They say we are going to Olmütz, and Olmütz is a | |
very decent town. You and I will travel comfortably in my calèche.” | |
“Do stop joking, Bilíbin,” cried Bolkónski. | |
“I am speaking sincerely as a friend! Consider! Where and why are | |
you going, when you might remain here? You are faced by one of two | |
things,” and the skin over his left temple puckered, “either you | |
will not reach your regiment before peace is concluded, or you will | |
share defeat and disgrace with Kutúzov’s whole army.” | |
And Bilíbin unwrinkled his temple, feeling that the dilemma was | |
insoluble. | |
“I cannot argue about it,” replied Prince Andrew coldly, but he | |
thought: “I am going to save the army.” | |
“My dear fellow, you are a hero!” said Bilíbin. | |
CHAPTER XIII | |
That same night, having taken leave of the Minister of War, Bolkónski | |
set off to rejoin the army, not knowing where he would find it and | |
fearing to be captured by the French on the way to Krems. | |
In Brünn everybody attached to the court was packing up, and the heavy | |
baggage was already being dispatched to Olmütz. Near Hetzelsdorf Prince | |
Andrew struck the high road along which the Russian army was moving with | |
great haste and in the greatest disorder. The road was so obstructed | |
with carts that it was impossible to get by in a carriage. Prince Andrew | |
took a horse and a Cossack from a Cossack commander, and hungry and | |
weary, making his way past the baggage wagons, rode in search of the | |
commander in chief and of his own luggage. Very sinister reports of the | |
position of the army reached him as he went along, and the appearance of | |
the troops in their disorderly flight confirmed these rumors. | |
“Cette armée russe que l’or de l’Angleterre a transportée des | |
extrémités de l’univers, nous allons lui faire éprouver le même | |
sort—(le sort de l’armée d’Ulm).” * He remembered these words | |
in Bonaparte’s address to his army at the beginning of the campaign, | |
and they awoke in him astonishment at the genius of his hero, a feeling | |
of wounded pride, and a hope of glory. “And should there be nothing | |
left but to die?” he thought. “Well, if need be, I shall do it no | |
worse than others.” | |
* “That Russian army which has been brought from the ends of | |
the earth by English gold, we shall cause to share the same | |
fate—(the fate of the army at Ulm).” | |
He looked with disdain at the endless confused mass of detachments, | |
carts, guns, artillery, and again baggage wagons and vehicles of all | |
kinds overtaking one another and blocking the muddy road, three and | |
sometimes four abreast. From all sides, behind and before, as far as ear | |
could reach, there were the rattle of wheels, the creaking of carts | |
and gun carriages, the tramp of horses, the crack of whips, shouts, the | |
urging of horses, and the swearing of soldiers, orderlies, and officers. | |
All along the sides of the road fallen horses were to be seen, some | |
flayed, some not, and broken-down carts beside which solitary soldiers | |
sat waiting for something, and again soldiers straggling from their | |
companies, crowds of whom set off to the neighboring villages, or | |
returned from them dragging sheep, fowls, hay, and bulging sacks. At | |
each ascent or descent of the road the crowds were yet denser and the | |
din of shouting more incessant. Soldiers floundering knee-deep in mud | |
pushed the guns and wagons themselves. Whips cracked, hoofs slipped, | |
traces broke, and lungs were strained with shouting. The officers | |
directing the march rode backward and forward between the carts. Their | |
voices were but feebly heard amid the uproar and one saw by their faces | |
that they despaired of the possibility of checking this disorder. | |
“Here is our dear Orthodox Russian army,” thought Bolkónski, | |
recalling Bilíbin’s words. | |
Wishing to find out where the commander in chief was, he rode up to | |
a convoy. Directly opposite to him came a strange one-horse vehicle, | |
evidently rigged up by soldiers out of any available materials and | |
looking like something between a cart, a cabriolet, and a calèche. | |
A soldier was driving, and a woman enveloped in shawls sat behind the | |
apron under the leather hood of the vehicle. Prince Andrew rode up | |
and was just putting his question to a soldier when his attention | |
was diverted by the desperate shrieks of the woman in the vehicle. An | |
officer in charge of transport was beating the soldier who was driving | |
the woman’s vehicle for trying to get ahead of others, and the strokes | |
of his whip fell on the apron of the equipage. The woman screamed | |
piercingly. Seeing Prince Andrew she leaned out from behind the apron | |
and, waving her thin arms from under the woolen shawl, cried: | |
“Mr. Aide-de-camp! Mr. Aide-de-camp!... For heaven’s sake... Protect | |
me! What will become of us? I am the wife of the doctor of the Seventh | |
Chasseurs.... They won’t let us pass, we are left behind and have lost | |
our people...” | |
“I’ll flatten you into a pancake!” shouted the angry officer to | |
the soldier. “Turn back with your slut!” | |
“Mr. Aide-de-camp! Help me!... What does it all mean?” screamed the | |
doctor’s wife. | |
“Kindly let this cart pass. Don’t you see it’s a woman?” said | |
Prince Andrew riding up to the officer. | |
The officer glanced at him, and without replying turned again to the | |
soldier. “I’ll teach you to push on!... Back!” | |
“Let them pass, I tell you!” repeated Prince Andrew, compressing his | |
lips. | |
“And who are you?” cried the officer, turning on him with tipsy | |
rage, “who are you? Are you in command here? Eh? I am commander here, | |
not you! Go back or I’ll flatten you into a pancake,” repeated he. | |
This expression evidently pleased him. | |
“That was a nice snub for the little aide-de-camp,” came a voice | |
from behind. | |
Prince Andrew saw that the officer was in that state of senseless, | |
tipsy rage when a man does not know what he is saying. He saw that his | |
championship of the doctor’s wife in her queer trap might expose him | |
to what he dreaded more than anything in the world—to ridicule; but | |
his instinct urged him on. Before the officer finished his sentence | |
Prince Andrew, his face distorted with fury, rode up to him and raised | |
his riding whip. | |
“Kind...ly let—them—pass!” | |
The officer flourished his arm and hastily rode away. | |
“It’s all the fault of these fellows on the staff that there’s | |
this disorder,” he muttered. “Do as you like.” | |
Prince Andrew without lifting his eyes rode hastily away from the | |
doctor’s wife, who was calling him her deliverer, and recalling with | |
a sense of disgust the minutest details of this humiliating scene he | |
galloped on to the village where he was told who the commander in chief | |
was. | |
On reaching the village he dismounted and went to the nearest house, | |
intending to rest if but for a moment, eat something, and try to sort | |
out the stinging and tormenting thoughts that confused his mind. “This | |
is a mob of scoundrels and not an army,” he was thinking as he went | |
up to the window of the first house, when a familiar voice called him by | |
name. | |
He turned round. Nesvítski’s handsome face looked out of the little | |
window. Nesvítski, moving his moist lips as he chewed something, and | |
flourishing his arm, called him to enter. | |
“Bolkónski! Bolkónski!... Don’t you hear? Eh? Come quick...” he | |
shouted. | |
Entering the house, Prince Andrew saw Nesvítski and another adjutant | |
having something to eat. They hastily turned round to him asking if he | |
had any news. On their familiar faces he read agitation and alarm. | |
This was particularly noticeable on Nesvítski’s usually laughing | |
countenance. | |
“Where is the commander in chief?” asked Bolkónski. | |
“Here, in that house,” answered the adjutant. | |
“Well, is it true that it’s peace and capitulation?” asked | |
Nesvítski. | |
“I was going to ask you. I know nothing except that it was all I could | |
do to get here.” | |
“And we, my dear boy! It’s terrible! I was wrong to laugh at Mack, | |
we’re getting it still worse,” said Nesvítski. “But sit down and | |
have something to eat.” | |
“You won’t be able to find either your baggage or anything else now, | |
Prince. And God only knows where your man Peter is,” said the other | |
adjutant. | |
“Where are headquarters?” | |
“We are to spend the night in Znaim.” | |
“Well, I have got all I need into packs for two horses,” said | |
Nesvítski. “They’ve made up splendid packs for me—fit to cross | |
the Bohemian mountains with. It’s a bad lookout, old fellow! But | |
what’s the matter with you? You must be ill to shiver like that,” he | |
added, noticing that Prince Andrew winced as at an electric shock. | |
“It’s nothing,” replied Prince Andrew. | |
He had just remembered his recent encounter with the doctor’s wife and | |
the convoy officer. | |
“What is the commander in chief doing here?” he asked. | |
“I can’t make out at all,” said Nesvítski. | |
“Well, all I can make out is that everything is abominable, | |
abominable, quite abominable!” said Prince Andrew, and he went off to | |
the house where the commander in chief was. | |
Passing by Kutúzov’s carriage and the exhausted saddle horses of | |
his suite, with their Cossacks who were talking loudly together, Prince | |
Andrew entered the passage. Kutúzov himself, he was told, was in the | |
house with Prince Bagratión and Weyrother. Weyrother was the Austrian | |
general who had succeeded Schmidt. In the passage little Kozlóvski was | |
squatting on his heels in front of a clerk. The clerk, with cuffs turned | |
up, was hastily writing at a tub turned bottom upwards. Kozlóvski’s | |
face looked worn—he too had evidently not slept all night. He glanced | |
at Prince Andrew and did not even nod to him. | |
“Second line... have you written it?” he continued dictating to the | |
clerk. “The Kiev Grenadiers, Podolian...” | |
“One can’t write so fast, your honor,” said the clerk, glancing | |
angrily and disrespectfully at Kozlóvski. | |
Through the door came the sounds of Kutúzov’s voice, excited and | |
dissatisfied, interrupted by another, an unfamiliar voice. From the | |
sound of these voices, the inattentive way Kozlóvski looked at him, the | |
disrespectful manner of the exhausted clerk, the fact that the clerk and | |
Kozlóvski were squatting on the floor by a tub so near to the commander | |
in chief, and from the noisy laughter of the Cossacks holding the | |
horses near the window, Prince Andrew felt that something important and | |
disastrous was about to happen. | |
He turned to Kozlóvski with urgent questions. | |
“Immediately, Prince,” said Kozlóvski. “Dispositions for | |
Bagratión.” | |
“What about capitulation?” | |
“Nothing of the sort. Orders are issued for a battle.” | |
Prince Andrew moved toward the door from whence voices were heard. | |
Just as he was going to open it the sounds ceased, the door opened, and | |
Kutúzov with his eagle nose and puffy face appeared in the doorway. | |
Prince Andrew stood right in front of Kutúzov but the expression of | |
the commander in chief’s one sound eye showed him to be so preoccupied | |
with thoughts and anxieties as to be oblivious of his presence. He | |
looked straight at his adjutant’s face without recognizing him. | |
“Well, have you finished?” said he to Kozlóvski. | |
“One moment, your excellency.” | |
Bagratión, a gaunt middle-aged man of medium height with a firm, | |
impassive face of Oriental type, came out after the commander in chief. | |
“I have the honor to present myself,” repeated Prince Andrew rather | |
loudly, handing Kutúzov an envelope. | |
“Ah, from Vienna? Very good. Later, later!” | |
Kutúzov went out into the porch with Bagratión. | |
“Well, good-by, Prince,” said he to Bagratión. “My blessing, and | |
may Christ be with you in your great endeavor!” | |
His face suddenly softened and tears came into his eyes. With his left | |
hand he drew Bagratión toward him, and with his right, on which he wore | |
a ring, he made the sign of the cross over him with a gesture evidently | |
habitual, offering his puffy cheek, but Bagratión kissed him on the | |
neck instead. | |
“Christ be with you!” Kutúzov repeated and went toward his | |
carriage. “Get in with me,” said he to Bolkónski. | |
“Your excellency, I should like to be of use here. Allow me to remain | |
with Prince Bagratión’s detachment.” | |
“Get in,” said Kutúzov, and noticing that Bolkónski still delayed, | |
he added: “I need good officers myself, need them myself!” | |
They got into the carriage and drove for a few minutes in silence. | |
“There is still much, much before us,” he said, as if with an old | |
man’s penetration he understood all that was passing in Bolkónski’s | |
mind. “If a tenth part of his detachment returns I shall thank God,” | |
he added as if speaking to himself. | |
Prince Andrew glanced at Kutúzov’s face only a foot distant from him | |
and involuntarily noticed the carefully washed seams of the scar near | |
his temple, where an Ismail bullet had pierced his skull, and the empty | |
eye socket. “Yes, he has a right to speak so calmly of those men’s | |
death,” thought Bolkónski. | |
“That is why I beg to be sent to that detachment,” he said. | |
Kutúzov did not reply. He seemed to have forgotten what he had been | |
saying, and sat plunged in thought. Five minutes later, gently swaying | |
on the soft springs of the carriage, he turned to Prince Andrew. | |
There was not a trace of agitation on his face. With delicate irony he | |
questioned Prince Andrew about the details of his interview with the | |
Emperor, about the remarks he had heard at court concerning the Krems | |
affair, and about some ladies they both knew. | |
CHAPTER XIV | |
On November 1 Kutúzov had received, through a spy, news that the army | |
he commanded was in an almost hopeless position. The spy reported that | |
the French, after crossing the bridge at Vienna, were advancing in | |
immense force upon Kutúzov’s line of communication with the troops | |
that were arriving from Russia. If Kutúzov decided to remain at Krems, | |
Napoleon’s army of one hundred and fifty thousand men would cut him | |
off completely and surround his exhausted army of forty thousand, and he | |
would find himself in the position of Mack at Ulm. If Kutúzov decided | |
to abandon the road connecting him with the troops arriving from Russia, | |
he would have to march with no road into unknown parts of the Bohemian | |
mountains, defending himself against superior forces of the enemy and | |
abandoning all hope of a junction with Buxhöwden. If Kutúzov decided | |
to retreat along the road from Krems to Olmütz, to unite with the | |
troops arriving from Russia, he risked being forestalled on that road | |
by the French who had crossed the Vienna bridge, and encumbered by his | |
baggage and transport, having to accept battle on the march against an | |
enemy three times as strong, who would hem him in from two sides. | |
Kutúzov chose this latter course. | |
The French, the spy reported, having crossed the Vienna bridge, were | |
advancing by forced marches toward Znaim, which lay sixty-six miles | |
off on the line of Kutúzov’s retreat. If he reached Znaim before the | |
French, there would be great hope of saving the army; to let the | |
French forestall him at Znaim meant the exposure of his whole army to a | |
disgrace such as that of Ulm, or to utter destruction. But to forestall | |
the French with his whole army was impossible. The road for the French | |
from Vienna to Znaim was shorter and better than the road for the | |
Russians from Krems to Znaim. | |
The night he received the news, Kutúzov sent Bagratión’s vanguard, | |
four thousand strong, to the right across the hills from the Krems-Znaim | |
to the Vienna-Znaim road. Bagratión was to make this march without | |
resting, and to halt facing Vienna with Znaim to his rear, and if he | |
succeeded in forestalling the French he was to delay them as long as | |
possible. Kutúzov himself with all his transport took the road to | |
Znaim. | |
Marching thirty miles that stormy night across roadless hills, with his | |
hungry, ill-shod soldiers, and losing a third of his men as stragglers | |
by the way, Bagratión came out on the Vienna-Znaim road at Hollabrünn | |
a few hours ahead of the French who were approaching Hollabrünn from | |
Vienna. Kutúzov with his transport had still to march for some days | |
before he could reach Znaim. Hence Bagratión with his four thousand | |
hungry, exhausted men would have to detain for days the whole enemy army | |
that came upon him at Hollabrünn, which was clearly impossible. But | |
a freak of fate made the impossible possible. The success of the trick | |
that had placed the Vienna bridge in the hands of the French without | |
a fight led Murat to try to deceive Kutúzov in a similar way. Meeting | |
Bagratión’s weak detachment on the Znaim road he supposed it to be | |
Kutúzov’s whole army. To be able to crush it absolutely he awaited | |
the arrival of the rest of the troops who were on their way from Vienna, | |
and with this object offered a three days’ truce on condition that | |
both armies should remain in position without moving. Murat declared | |
that negotiations for peace were already proceeding, and that he | |
therefore offered this truce to avoid unnecessary bloodshed. Count | |
Nostitz, the Austrian general occupying the advanced posts, believed | |
Murat’s emissary and retired, leaving Bagratión’s division | |
exposed. Another emissary rode to the Russian line to announce the peace | |
negotiations and to offer the Russian army the three days’ truce. | |
Bagratión replied that he was not authorized either to accept or refuse | |
a truce and sent his adjutant to Kutúzov to report the offer he had | |
received. | |
A truce was Kutúzov’s sole chance of gaining time, giving | |
Bagratión’s exhausted troops some rest, and letting the transport and | |
heavy convoys (whose movements were concealed from the French) advance | |
if but one stage nearer Znaim. The offer of a truce gave the only, and | |
a quite unexpected, chance of saving the army. On receiving the news | |
he immediately dispatched Adjutant General Wintzingerode, who was in | |
attendance on him, to the enemy camp. Wintzingerode was not merely | |
to agree to the truce but also to offer terms of capitulation, and | |
meanwhile Kutúzov sent his adjutants back to hasten to the utmost the | |
movements of the baggage trains of the entire army along the Krems-Znaim | |
road. Bagratión’s exhausted and hungry detachment, which alone | |
covered this movement of the transport and of the whole army, had to | |
remain stationary in face of an enemy eight times as strong as itself. | |
Kutúzov’s expectations that the proposals of capitulation (which were | |
in no way binding) might give time for part of the transport to pass, | |
and also that Murat’s mistake would very soon be discovered, proved | |
correct. As soon as Bonaparte (who was at Schönbrunn, sixteen miles | |
from Hollabrünn) received Murat’s dispatch with the proposal of a | |
truce and a capitulation, he detected a ruse and wrote the following | |
letter to Murat: | |
Schönbrunn, 25th Brumaire, 1805, | |
at eight o’clock in the morning | |
To PRINCE MURAT, | |
I cannot find words to express to you my displeasure. You command only | |
my advance guard, and have no right to arrange an armistice without my | |
order. You are causing me to lose the fruits of a campaign. Break | |
the armistice immediately and march on the enemy. Inform him that the | |
general who signed that capitulation had no right to do so, and that no | |
one but the Emperor of Russia has that right. | |
If, however, the Emperor of Russia ratifies that convention, I will | |
ratify it; but it is only a trick. March on, destroy the Russian | |
army.... You are in a position to seize its baggage and artillery. | |
The Russian Emperor’s aide-de-camp is an impostor. Officers are | |
nothing when they have no powers; this one had none.... The Austrians | |
let themselves be tricked at the crossing of the Vienna bridge, you are | |
letting yourself be tricked by an aide-de-camp of the Emperor. | |
NAPOLEON | |
Bonaparte’s adjutant rode full gallop with this menacing letter to | |
Murat. Bonaparte himself, not trusting to his generals, moved with all | |
the Guards to the field of battle, afraid of letting a ready victim | |
escape, and Bagratión’s four thousand men merrily lighted campfires, | |
dried and warmed themselves, cooked their porridge for the first time | |
for three days, and not one of them knew or imagined what was in store | |
for him. | |
CHAPTER XV | |
Between three and four o’clock in the afternoon Prince Andrew, who | |
had persisted in his request to Kutúzov, arrived at Grunth and reported | |
himself to Bagratión. Bonaparte’s adjutant had not yet reached | |
Murat’s detachment and the battle had not yet begun. In Bagratión’s | |
detachment no one knew anything of the general position of affairs. They | |
talked of peace but did not believe in its possibility; others talked | |
of a battle but also disbelieved in the nearness of an engagement. | |
Bagratión, knowing Bolkónski to be a favorite and trusted adjutant, | |
received him with distinction and special marks of favor, explaining to | |
him that there would probably be an engagement that day or the next, and | |
giving him full liberty to remain with him during the battle or to join | |
the rearguard and have an eye on the order of retreat, “which is also | |
very important.” | |
“However, there will hardly be an engagement today,” said Bagratión | |
as if to reassure Prince Andrew. | |
“If he is one of the ordinary little staff dandies sent to earn a | |
medal he can get his reward just as well in the rearguard, but if he | |
wishes to stay with me, let him... he’ll be of use here if he’s a | |
brave officer,” thought Bagratión. Prince Andrew, without replying, | |
asked the prince’s permission to ride round the position to see the | |
disposition of the forces, so as to know his bearings should he be sent | |
to execute an order. The officer on duty, a handsome, elegantly dressed | |
man with a diamond ring on his forefinger, who was fond of speaking | |
French though he spoke it badly, offered to conduct Prince Andrew. | |
On all sides they saw rain-soaked officers with dejected faces who | |
seemed to be seeking something, and soldiers dragging doors, benches, | |
and fencing from the village. | |
“There now, Prince! We can’t stop those fellows,” said the staff | |
officer pointing to the soldiers. “The officers don’t keep them in | |
hand. And there,” he pointed to a sutler’s tent, “they crowd in | |
and sit. This morning I turned them all out and now look, it’s full | |
again. I must go there, Prince, and scare them a bit. It won’t take a | |
moment.” | |
“Yes, let’s go in and I will get myself a roll and some cheese,” | |
said Prince Andrew who had not yet had time to eat anything. | |
“Why didn’t you mention it, Prince? I would have offered you | |
something.” | |
They dismounted and entered the tent. Several officers, with flushed and | |
weary faces, were sitting at the table eating and drinking. | |
“Now what does this mean, gentlemen?” said the staff officer, in | |
the reproachful tone of a man who has repeated the same thing more | |
than once. “You know it won’t do to leave your posts like this. | |
The prince gave orders that no one should leave his post. Now you, | |
Captain,” and he turned to a thin, dirty little artillery officer who | |
without his boots (he had given them to the canteen keeper to dry), | |
in only his stockings, rose when they entered, smiling not altogether | |
comfortably. | |
“Well, aren’t you ashamed of yourself, Captain Túshin?” he | |
continued. “One would think that as an artillery officer you would set | |
a good example, yet here you are without your boots! The alarm will be | |
sounded and you’ll be in a pretty position without your boots!” (The | |
staff officer smiled.) “Kindly return to your posts, gentlemen, all of | |
you, all!” he added in a tone of command. | |
Prince Andrew smiled involuntarily as he looked at the artillery officer | |
Túshin, who silent and smiling, shifting from one stockinged foot to | |
the other, glanced inquiringly with his large, intelligent, kindly eyes | |
from Prince Andrew to the staff officer. | |
“The soldiers say it feels easier without boots,” said Captain | |
Túshin smiling shyly in his uncomfortable position, evidently wishing | |
to adopt a jocular tone. But before he had finished he felt that his | |
jest was unacceptable and had not come off. He grew confused. | |
“Kindly return to your posts,” said the staff officer trying to | |
preserve his gravity. | |
Prince Andrew glanced again at the artillery officer’s small figure. | |
There was something peculiar about it, quite unsoldierly, rather comic, | |
but extremely attractive. | |
The staff officer and Prince Andrew mounted their horses and rode on. | |
Having ridden beyond the village, continually meeting and overtaking | |
soldiers and officers of various regiments, they saw on their left some | |
entrenchments being thrown up, the freshly dug clay of which showed up | |
red. Several battalions of soldiers, in their shirt sleeves despite | |
the cold wind, swarmed in these earthworks like a host of white ants; | |
spadefuls of red clay were continually being thrown up from behind the | |
bank by unseen hands. Prince Andrew and the officer rode up, looked at | |
the entrenchment, and went on again. Just behind it they came upon some | |
dozens of soldiers, continually replaced by others, who ran from the | |
entrenchment. They had to hold their noses and put their horses to a | |
trot to escape from the poisoned atmosphere of these latrines. | |
“Voilà l’agrément des camps, monsieur le prince,” * said the | |
staff officer. | |
* “This is a pleasure one gets in camp, Prince.” | |
They rode up the opposite hill. From there the French could already be | |
seen. Prince Andrew stopped and began examining the position. | |
“That’s our battery,” said the staff officer indicating the | |
highest point. “It’s in charge of the queer fellow we saw without | |
his boots. You can see everything from there; let’s go there, | |
Prince.” | |
“Thank you very much, I will go on alone,” said Prince Andrew, | |
wishing to rid himself of this staff officer’s company, “please | |
don’t trouble yourself further.” | |
The staff officer remained behind and Prince Andrew rode on alone. | |
The farther forward and nearer the enemy he went, the more orderly and | |
cheerful were the troops. The greatest disorder and depression had been | |
in the baggage train he had passed that morning on the Znaim road seven | |
miles away from the French. At Grunth also some apprehension and alarm | |
could be felt, but the nearer Prince Andrew came to the French lines the | |
more confident was the appearance of our troops. The soldiers in | |
their greatcoats were ranged in lines, the sergeants major and company | |
officers were counting the men, poking the last man in each section in | |
the ribs and telling him to hold his hand up. Soldiers scattered over | |
the whole place were dragging logs and brushwood and were building | |
shelters with merry chatter and laughter; around the fires sat others, | |
dressed and undressed, drying their shirts and leg bands or mending | |
boots or overcoats and crowding round the boilers and porridge cookers. | |
In one company dinner was ready, and the soldiers were gazing eagerly | |
at the steaming boiler, waiting till the sample, which a quartermaster | |
sergeant was carrying in a wooden bowl to an officer who sat on a log | |
before his shelter, had been tasted. | |
Another company, a lucky one for not all the companies had vodka, | |
crowded round a pockmarked, broad-shouldered sergeant major who, tilting | |
a keg, filled one after another the canteen lids held out to him. The | |
soldiers lifted the canteen lids to their lips with reverential faces, | |
emptied them, rolling the vodka in their mouths, and walked away from | |
the sergeant major with brightened expressions, licking their lips and | |
wiping them on the sleeves of their greatcoats. All their faces were | |
as serene as if all this were happening at home awaiting peaceful | |
encampment, and not within sight of the enemy before an action in | |
which at least half of them would be left on the field. After passing a | |
chasseur regiment and in the lines of the Kiev grenadiers—fine fellows | |
busy with similar peaceful affairs—near the shelter of the regimental | |
commander, higher than and different from the others, Prince Andrew came | |
out in front of a platoon of grenadiers before whom lay a naked man. Two | |
soldiers held him while two others were flourishing their switches and | |
striking him regularly on his bare back. The man shrieked unnaturally. | |
A stout major was pacing up and down the line, and regardless of the | |
screams kept repeating: | |
“It’s a shame for a soldier to steal; a soldier must be honest, | |
honorable, and brave, but if he robs his fellows there is no honor in | |
him, he’s a scoundrel. Go on! Go on!” | |
So the swishing sound of the strokes, and the desperate but unnatural | |
screams, continued. | |
“Go on, go on!” said the major. | |
A young officer with a bewildered and pained expression on his face | |
stepped away from the man and looked round inquiringly at the adjutant | |
as he rode by. | |
Prince Andrew, having reached the front line, rode along it. Our front | |
line and that of the enemy were far apart on the right and left flanks, | |
but in the center where the men with a flag of truce had passed that | |
morning, the lines were so near together that the men could see one | |
another’s faces and speak to one another. Besides the soldiers who | |
formed the picket line on either side, there were many curious onlookers | |
who, jesting and laughing, stared at their strange foreign enemies. | |
Since early morning—despite an injunction not to approach the picket | |
line—the officers had been unable to keep sight-seers away. The | |
soldiers forming the picket line, like showmen exhibiting a curiosity, | |
no longer looked at the French but paid attention to the sight-seers and | |
grew weary waiting to be relieved. Prince Andrew halted to have a look | |
at the French. | |
“Look! Look there!” one soldier was saying to another, pointing to a | |
Russian musketeer who had gone up to the picket line with an officer and | |
was rapidly and excitedly talking to a French grenadier. “Hark to him | |
jabbering! Fine, isn’t it? It’s all the Frenchy can do to keep up | |
with him. There now, Sídorov!” | |
“Wait a bit and listen. It’s fine!” answered Sídorov, who was | |
considered an adept at French. | |
The soldier to whom the laughers referred was Dólokhov. Prince Andrew | |
recognized him and stopped to listen to what he was saying. Dólokhov | |
had come from the left flank where their regiment was stationed, with | |
his captain. | |
“Now then, go on, go on!” incited the officer, bending forward and | |
trying not to lose a word of the speech which was incomprehensible to | |
him. “More, please: more! What’s he saying?” | |
Dólokhov did not answer the captain; he had been drawn into a hot | |
dispute with the French grenadier. They were naturally talking about the | |
campaign. The Frenchman, confusing the Austrians with the Russians, was | |
trying to prove that the Russians had surrendered and had fled all | |
the way from Ulm, while Dólokhov maintained that the Russians had not | |
surrendered but had beaten the French. | |
“We have orders to drive you off here, and we shall drive you off,” | |
said Dólokhov. | |
“Only take care you and your Cossacks are not all captured!” said | |
the French grenadier. | |
The French onlookers and listeners laughed. | |
“We’ll make you dance as we did under Suvórov...,” * said | |
Dólokhov. | |
* “On vous fera danser.” | |
“Qu’ est-ce qu’il chante?” * asked a Frenchman. | |
* “What’s he singing about?” | |
“It’s ancient history,” said another, guessing that it referred to | |
a former war. “The Emperor will teach your Suvara as he has taught the | |
others...” | |
“Bonaparte...” began Dólokhov, but the Frenchman interrupted him. | |
“Not Bonaparte. He is the Emperor! Sacré nom...!” cried he angrily. | |
“The devil skin your Emperor.” | |
And Dólokhov swore at him in coarse soldier’s Russian and shouldering | |
his musket walked away. | |
“Let us go, Iván Lukích,” he said to the captain. | |
“Ah, that’s the way to talk French,” said the picket soldiers. | |
“Now, Sídorov, you have a try!” | |
Sídorov, turning to the French, winked, and began to jabber meaningless | |
sounds very fast: “Kari, mala, tafa, safi, muter, Kaská,” he said, | |
trying to give an expressive intonation to his voice. | |
“Ho! ho! ho! Ha! ha! ha! ha! Ouh! ouh!” came peals of such healthy | |
and good-humored laughter from the soldiers that it infected the French | |
involuntarily, so much so that the only thing left to do seemed to be | |
to unload the muskets, explode the ammunition, and all return home as | |
quickly as possible. | |
But the guns remained loaded, the loopholes in blockhouses and | |
entrenchments looked out just as menacingly, and the unlimbered cannon | |
confronted one another as before. | |
CHAPTER XVI | |
Having ridden round the whole line from right flank to left, Prince | |
Andrew made his way up to the battery from which the staff officer had | |
told him the whole field could be seen. Here he dismounted, and stopped | |
beside the farthest of the four unlimbered cannon. Before the guns an | |
artillery sentry was pacing up and down; he stood at attention when the | |
officer arrived, but at a sign resumed his measured, monotonous pacing. | |
Behind the guns were their limbers and still farther back picket ropes | |
and artillerymen’s bonfires. To the left, not far from the farthest | |
cannon, was a small, newly constructed wattle shed from which came the | |
sound of officers’ voices in eager conversation. | |
It was true that a view over nearly the whole Russian position and the | |
greater part of the enemy’s opened out from this battery. Just facing | |
it, on the crest of the opposite hill, the village of Schön Grabern | |
could be seen, and in three places to left and right the French troops | |
amid the smoke of their campfires, the greater part of whom were | |
evidently in the village itself and behind the hill. To the left from | |
that village, amid the smoke, was something resembling a battery, but it | |
was impossible to see it clearly with the naked eye. Our right flank was | |
posted on a rather steep incline which dominated the French position. | |
Our infantry were stationed there, and at the farthest point the | |
dragoons. In the center, where Túshin’s battery stood and from which | |
Prince Andrew was surveying the position, was the easiest and most | |
direct descent and ascent to the brook separating us from Schön | |
Grabern. On the left our troops were close to a copse, in which smoked | |
the bonfires of our infantry who were felling wood. The French line was | |
wider than ours, and it was plain that they could easily outflank us | |
on both sides. Behind our position was a steep and deep dip, making it | |
difficult for artillery and cavalry to retire. Prince Andrew took | |
out his notebook and, leaning on the cannon, sketched a plan of the | |
position. He made some notes on two points, intending to mention them to | |
Bagratión. His idea was, first, to concentrate all the artillery in the | |
center, and secondly, to withdraw the cavalry to the other side of the | |
dip. Prince Andrew, being always near the commander in chief, closely | |
following the mass movements and general orders, and constantly studying | |
historical accounts of battles, involuntarily pictured to himself the | |
course of events in the forthcoming action in broad outline. He | |
imagined only important possibilities: “If the enemy attacks the right | |
flank,” he said to himself, “the Kiev grenadiers and the Podólsk | |
chasseurs must hold their position till reserves from the center | |
come up. In that case the dragoons could successfully make a flank | |
counterattack. If they attack our center we, having the center battery | |
on this high ground, shall withdraw the left flank under its cover, and | |
retreat to the dip by echelons.” So he reasoned.... All the time | |
he had been beside the gun, he had heard the voices of the officers | |
distinctly, but as often happens had not understood a word of what they | |
were saying. Suddenly, however, he was struck by a voice coming from the | |
shed, and its tone was so sincere that he could not but listen. | |
“No, friend,” said a pleasant and, as it seemed to Prince Andrew, a | |
familiar voice, “what I say is that if it were possible to know | |
what is beyond death, none of us would be afraid of it. That’s so, | |
friend.” | |
Another, a younger voice, interrupted him: “Afraid or not, you can’t | |
escape it anyhow.” | |
“All the same, one is afraid! Oh, you clever people,” said a third | |
manly voice interrupting them both. “Of course you artillery men are | |
very wise, because you can take everything along with you—vodka and | |
snacks.” | |
And the owner of the manly voice, evidently an infantry officer, | |
laughed. | |
“Yes, one is afraid,” continued the first speaker, he of the | |
familiar voice. “One is afraid of the unknown, that’s what it is. | |
Whatever we may say about the soul going to the sky... we know there is | |
no sky but only an atmosphere.” | |
The manly voice again interrupted the artillery officer. | |
“Well, stand us some of your herb vodka, Túshin,” it said. | |
“Why,” thought Prince Andrew, “that’s the captain who stood up | |
in the sutler’s hut without his boots.” He recognized the agreeable, | |
philosophizing voice with pleasure. | |
“Some herb vodka? Certainly!” said Túshin. “But still, to | |
conceive a future life...” | |
He did not finish. Just then there was a whistle in the air; nearer and | |
nearer, faster and louder, louder and faster, a cannon ball, as if it | |
had not finished saying what was necessary, thudded into the ground near | |
the shed with super human force, throwing up a mass of earth. The ground | |
seemed to groan at the terrible impact. | |
And immediately Túshin, with a short pipe in the corner of his mouth | |
and his kind, intelligent face rather pale, rushed out of the shed | |
followed by the owner of the manly voice, a dashing infantry officer who | |
hurried off to his company, buttoning up his coat as he ran. | |
CHAPTER XVII | |
Mounting his horse again Prince Andrew lingered with the battery, | |
looking at the puff from the gun that had sent the ball. His eyes | |
ran rapidly over the wide space, but he only saw that the hitherto | |
motionless masses of the French now swayed and that there really was | |
a battery to their left. The smoke above it had not yet dispersed. Two | |
mounted Frenchmen, probably adjutants, were galloping up the hill. A | |
small but distinctly visible enemy column was moving down the hill, | |
probably to strengthen the front line. The smoke of the first shot had | |
not yet dispersed before another puff appeared, followed by a report. | |
The battle had begun! Prince Andrew turned his horse and galloped back | |
to Grunth to find Prince Bagratión. He heard the cannonade behind him | |
growing louder and more frequent. Evidently our guns had begun to reply. | |
From the bottom of the slope, where the parleys had taken place, came | |
the report of musketry. | |
Lemarrois had just arrived at a gallop with Bonaparte’s stern letter, | |
and Murat, humiliated and anxious to expiate his fault, had at once | |
moved his forces to attack the center and outflank both the Russian | |
wings, hoping before evening and before the arrival of the Emperor to | |
crush the contemptible detachment that stood before him. | |
“It has begun. Here it is!” thought Prince Andrew, feeling the | |
blood rush to his heart. “But where and how will my Toulon present | |
itself?” | |
Passing between the companies that had been eating porridge and drinking | |
vodka a quarter of an hour before, he saw everywhere the same rapid | |
movement of soldiers forming ranks and getting their muskets ready, | |
and on all their faces he recognized the same eagerness that filled his | |
heart. “It has begun! Here it is, dreadful but enjoyable!” was what | |
the face of each soldier and each officer seemed to say. | |
Before he had reached the embankments that were being thrown up, he saw, | |
in the light of the dull autumn evening, mounted men coming toward him. | |
The foremost, wearing a Cossack cloak and lambskin cap and riding a | |
white horse, was Prince Bagratión. Prince Andrew stopped, waiting for | |
him to come up; Prince Bagratión reined in his horse and recognizing | |
Prince Andrew nodded to him. He still looked ahead while Prince Andrew | |
told him what he had seen. | |
The feeling, “It has begun! Here it is!” was seen even on Prince | |
Bagratión’s hard brown face with its half-closed, dull, sleepy eyes. | |
Prince Andrew gazed with anxious curiosity at that impassive face | |
and wished he could tell what, if anything, this man was thinking | |
and feeling at that moment. “Is there anything at all behind that | |
impassive face?” Prince Andrew asked himself as he looked. Prince | |
Bagratión bent his head in sign of agreement with what Prince Andrew | |
told him, and said, “Very good!” in a tone that seemed to imply that | |
everything that took place and was reported to him was exactly what he | |
had foreseen. Prince Andrew, out of breath with his rapid ride, spoke | |
quickly. Prince Bagratión, uttering his words with an Oriental accent, | |
spoke particularly slowly, as if to impress the fact that there was no | |
need to hurry. However, he put his horse to a trot in the direction | |
of Túshin’s battery. Prince Andrew followed with the suite. Behind | |
Prince Bagratión rode an officer of the suite, the prince’s personal | |
adjutant, Zherkóv, an orderly officer, the staff officer on duty, | |
riding a fine bobtailed horse, and a civilian—an accountant who had | |
asked permission to be present at the battle out of curiosity. The | |
accountant, a stout, full-faced man, looked around him with a naïve | |
smile of satisfaction and presented a strange appearance among the | |
hussars, Cossacks, and adjutants, in his camlet coat, as he jolted on | |
his horse with a convoy officer’s saddle. | |
“He wants to see a battle,” said Zherkóv to Bolkónski, pointing | |
to the accountant, “but he feels a pain in the pit of his stomach | |
already.” | |
“Oh, leave off!” said the accountant with a beaming but rather | |
cunning smile, as if flattered at being made the subject of Zherkóv’s | |
joke, and purposely trying to appear stupider than he really was. | |
“It is very strange, mon Monsieur Prince,” said the staff officer. | |
(He remembered that in French there is some peculiar way of addressing a | |
prince, but could not get it quite right.) | |
By this time they were all approaching Túshin’s battery, and a ball | |
struck the ground in front of them. | |
“What’s that that has fallen?” asked the accountant with a naïve | |
smile. | |
“A French pancake,” answered Zherkóv. | |
“So that’s what they hit with?” asked the accountant. “How | |
awful!” | |
He seemed to swell with satisfaction. He had hardly finished speaking | |
when they again heard an unexpectedly violent whistling which suddenly | |
ended with a thud into something soft... f-f-flop! and a Cossack, riding | |
a little to their right and behind the accountant, crashed to earth with | |
his horse. Zherkóv and the staff officer bent over their saddles and | |
turned their horses away. The accountant stopped, facing the Cossack, | |
and examined him with attentive curiosity. The Cossack was dead, but the | |
horse still struggled. | |
Prince Bagratión screwed up his eyes, looked round, and, seeing the | |
cause of the confusion, turned away with indifference, as if to say, | |
“Is it worth while noticing trifles?” He reined in his horse with | |
the care of a skillful rider and, slightly bending over, disengaged his | |
saber which had caught in his cloak. It was an old-fashioned saber of | |
a kind no longer in general use. Prince Andrew remembered the story of | |
Suvórov giving his saber to Bagratión in Italy, and the recollection | |
was particularly pleasant at that moment. They had reached the battery | |
at which Prince Andrew had been when he examined the battlefield. | |
“Whose company?” asked Prince Bagratión of an artilleryman standing | |
by the ammunition wagon. | |
He asked, “Whose company?” but he really meant, “Are you | |
frightened here?” and the artilleryman understood him. | |
“Captain Túshin’s, your excellency!” shouted the red-haired, | |
freckled gunner in a merry voice, standing to attention. | |
“Yes, yes,” muttered Bagratión as if considering something, and he | |
rode past the limbers to the farthest cannon. | |
As he approached, a ringing shot issued from it deafening him and his | |
suite, and in the smoke that suddenly surrounded the gun they could see | |
the gunners who had seized it straining to roll it quickly back to its | |
former position. A huge, broad-shouldered gunner, Number One, holding | |
a mop, his legs far apart, sprang to the wheel; while Number Two with | |
a trembling hand placed a charge in the cannon’s mouth. The short, | |
round-shouldered Captain Túshin, stumbling over the tail of the gun | |
carriage, moved forward and, not noticing the general, looked out | |
shading his eyes with his small hand. | |
“Lift it two lines more and it will be just right,” cried he in a | |
feeble voice to which he tried to impart a dashing note, ill-suited to | |
his weak figure. “Number Two!” he squeaked. “Fire, Medvédev!” | |
Bagratión called to him, and Túshin, raising three fingers to his cap | |
with a bashful and awkward gesture not at all like a military salute | |
but like a priest’s benediction, approached the general. Though | |
Túshin’s guns had been intended to cannonade the valley, he was | |
firing incendiary balls at the village of Schön Grabern visible just | |
opposite, in front of which large masses of French were advancing. | |
No one had given Túshin orders where and at what to fire, but after | |
consulting his sergeant major, Zakharchénko, for whom he had great | |
respect, he had decided that it would be a good thing to set fire to the | |
village. “Very good!” said Bagratión in reply to the officer’s | |
report, and began deliberately to examine the whole battlefield extended | |
before him. The French had advanced nearest on our right. Below the | |
height on which the Kiev regiment was stationed, in the hollow where the | |
rivulet flowed, the soul-stirring rolling and crackling of musketry was | |
heard, and much farther to the right beyond the dragoons, the officer of | |
the suite pointed out to Bagratión a French column that was outflanking | |
us. To the left the horizon bounded by the adjacent wood. Prince | |
Bagratión ordered two battalions from the center to be sent to | |
reinforce the right flank. The officer of the suite ventured to remark | |
to the prince that if these battalions went away, the guns would remain | |
without support. Prince Bagratión turned to the officer and with his | |
dull eyes looked at him in silence. It seemed to Prince Andrew that the | |
officer’s remark was just and that really no answer could be made to | |
it. But at that moment an adjutant galloped up with a message from the | |
commander of the regiment in the hollow and news that immense masses | |
of the French were coming down upon them and that his regiment was in | |
disorder and was retreating upon the Kiev grenadiers. Prince Bagratión | |
bowed his head in sign of assent and approval. He rode off at a walk to | |
the right and sent an adjutant to the dragoons with orders to attack the | |
French. But this adjutant returned half an hour later with the news that | |
the commander of the dragoons had already retreated beyond the dip in | |
the ground, as a heavy fire had been opened on him and he was losing | |
men uselessly, and so had hastened to throw some sharpshooters into the | |
wood. | |
“Very good!” said Bagratión. | |
As he was leaving the battery, firing was heard on the left also, and | |
as it was too far to the left flank for him to have time to go there | |
himself, Prince Bagratión sent Zherkóv to tell the general in command | |
(the one who had paraded his regiment before Kutúzov at Braunau) that | |
he must retreat as quickly as possible behind the hollow in the rear, | |
as the right flank would probably not be able to withstand the enemy’s | |
attack very long. About Túshin and the battalion that had been in | |
support of his battery all was forgotten. Prince Andrew listened | |
attentively to Bagratión’s colloquies with the commanding officers | |
and the orders he gave them and, to his surprise, found that no orders | |
were really given, but that Prince Bagratión tried to make it appear | |
that everything done by necessity, by accident, or by the will of | |
subordinate commanders was done, if not by his direct command, at least | |
in accord with his intentions. Prince Andrew noticed, however, that | |
though what happened was due to chance and was independent of the | |
commander’s will, owing to the tact Bagratión showed, his presence | |
was very valuable. Officers who approached him with disturbed | |
countenances became calm; soldiers and officers greeted him gaily, grew | |
more cheerful in his presence, and were evidently anxious to display | |
their courage before him. | |
CHAPTER XVIII | |
Prince Bagratión, having reached the highest point of our right flank, | |
began riding downhill to where the roll of musketry was heard but where | |
on account of the smoke nothing could be seen. The nearer they got to | |
the hollow the less they could see but the more they felt the nearness | |
of the actual battlefield. They began to meet wounded men. One with a | |
bleeding head and no cap was being dragged along by two soldiers who | |
supported him under the arms. There was a gurgle in his throat and he | |
was spitting blood. A bullet had evidently hit him in the throat or | |
mouth. Another was walking sturdily by himself but without his musket, | |
groaning aloud and swinging his arm which had just been hurt, while | |
blood from it was streaming over his greatcoat as from a bottle. He had | |
that moment been wounded and his face showed fear rather than suffering. | |
Crossing a road they descended a steep incline and saw several men | |
lying on the ground; they also met a crowd of soldiers some of whom were | |
unwounded. The soldiers were ascending the hill breathing heavily, and | |
despite the general’s presence were talking loudly and gesticulating. | |
In front of them rows of gray cloaks were already visible through the | |
smoke, and an officer catching sight of Bagratión rushed shouting after | |
the crowd of retreating soldiers, ordering them back. Bagratión rode up | |
to the ranks along which shots crackled now here and now there, drowning | |
the sound of voices and the shouts of command. The whole air reeked with | |
smoke. The excited faces of the soldiers were blackened with it. Some | |
were using their ramrods, others putting powder on the touchpans or | |
taking charges from their pouches, while others were firing, though who | |
they were firing at could not be seen for the smoke which there was no | |
wind to carry away. A pleasant humming and whistling of bullets were | |
often heard. “What is this?” thought Prince Andrew approaching the | |
crowd of soldiers. “It can’t be an attack, for they are not moving; | |
it can’t be a square—for they are not drawn up for that.” | |
The commander of the regiment, a thin, feeble-looking old man with a | |
pleasant smile—his eyelids drooping more than half over his old eyes, | |
giving him a mild expression, rode up to Bagratión and welcomed him as | |
a host welcomes an honored guest. He reported that his regiment had | |
been attacked by French cavalry and that, though the attack had been | |
repulsed, he had lost more than half his men. He said the attack | |
had been repulsed, employing this military term to describe what had | |
occurred to his regiment, but in reality he did not himself know what | |
had happened during that half-hour to the troops entrusted to him, and | |
could not say with certainty whether the attack had been repulsed or his | |
regiment had been broken up. All he knew was that at the commencement | |
of the action balls and shells began flying all over his regiment and | |
hitting men and that afterwards someone had shouted “Cavalry!” and | |
our men had begun firing. They were still firing, not at the cavalry | |
which had disappeared, but at French infantry who had come into the | |
hollow and were firing at our men. Prince Bagratión bowed his head as a | |
sign that this was exactly what he had desired and expected. Turning | |
to his adjutant he ordered him to bring down the two battalions of the | |
Sixth Chasseurs whom they had just passed. Prince Andrew was struck by | |
the changed expression on Prince Bagratión’s face at this moment. It | |
expressed the concentrated and happy resolution you see on the face of | |
a man who on a hot day takes a final run before plunging into the water. | |
The dull, sleepy expression was no longer there, nor the affectation | |
of profound thought. The round, steady, hawk’s eyes looked before him | |
eagerly and rather disdainfully, not resting on anything although his | |
movements were still slow and measured. | |
The commander of the regiment turned to Prince Bagratión, entreating | |
him to go back as it was too dangerous to remain where they were. | |
“Please, your excellency, for God’s sake!” he kept saying, | |
glancing for support at an officer of the suite who turned away | |
from him. “There, you see!” and he drew attention to the bullets | |
whistling, singing, and hissing continually around them. He spoke in the | |
tone of entreaty and reproach that a carpenter uses to a gentleman who | |
has picked up an ax: “We are used to it, but you, sir, will blister | |
your hands.” He spoke as if those bullets could not kill him, and his | |
half-closed eyes gave still more persuasiveness to his words. The staff | |
officer joined in the colonel’s appeals, but Bagratión did not reply; | |
he only gave an order to cease firing and re-form, so as to give room | |
for the two approaching battalions. While he was speaking, the curtain | |
of smoke that had concealed the hollow, driven by a rising wind, began | |
to move from right to left as if drawn by an invisible hand, and the | |
hill opposite, with the French moving about on it, opened out before | |
them. All eyes fastened involuntarily on this French column advancing | |
against them and winding down over the uneven ground. One could already | |
see the soldiers’ shaggy caps, distinguish the officers from the men, | |
and see the standard flapping against its staff. | |
“They march splendidly,” remarked someone in Bagratión’s suite. | |
The head of the column had already descended into the hollow. The clash | |
would take place on this side of it... | |
The remains of our regiment which had been in action rapidly formed up | |
and moved to the right; from behind it, dispersing the laggards, came | |
two battalions of the Sixth Chasseurs in fine order. Before they had | |
reached Bagratión, the weighty tread of the mass of men marching in | |
step could be heard. On their left flank, nearest to Bagratión, marched | |
a company commander, a fine round-faced man, with a stupid and happy | |
expression—the same man who had rushed out of the wattle shed. At that | |
moment he was clearly thinking of nothing but how dashing a fellow he | |
would appear as he passed the commander. | |
With the self-satisfaction of a man on parade, he stepped lightly with | |
his muscular legs as if sailing along, stretching himself to his full | |
height without the smallest effort, his ease contrasting with the heavy | |
tread of the soldiers who were keeping step with him. He carried close | |
to his leg a narrow unsheathed sword (small, curved, and not like a real | |
weapon) and looked now at the superior officers and now back at the men | |
without losing step, his whole powerful body turning flexibly. It was as | |
if all the powers of his soul were concentrated on passing the commander | |
in the best possible manner, and feeling that he was doing it well he | |
was happy. “Left... left... left...” he seemed to repeat to himself | |
at each alternate step; and in time to this, with stern but varied | |
faces, the wall of soldiers burdened with knapsacks and muskets marched | |
in step, and each one of these hundreds of soldiers seemed to be | |
repeating to himself at each alternate step, “Left... left... | |
left...” A fat major skirted a bush, puffing and falling out of | |
step; a soldier who had fallen behind, his face showing alarm at his | |
defection, ran at a trot, panting to catch up with his company. A cannon | |
ball, cleaving the air, flew over the heads of Bagratión and his suite, | |
and fell into the column to the measure of “Left... left!” “Close | |
up!” came the company commander’s voice in jaunty tones. The | |
soldiers passed in a semicircle round something where the ball had | |
fallen, and an old trooper on the flank, a noncommissioned officer who | |
had stopped beside the dead men, ran to catch up his line and, falling | |
into step with a hop, looked back angrily, and through the ominous | |
silence and the regular tramp of feet beating the ground in unison, one | |
seemed to hear left... left... left. | |
“Well done, lads!” said Prince Bagratión. | |
“Glad to do our best, your ex’len-lency!” came a confused shout | |
from the ranks. A morose soldier marching on the left turned his eyes on | |
Bagratión as he shouted, with an expression that seemed to say: “We | |
know that ourselves!” Another, without looking round, as though | |
fearing to relax, shouted with his mouth wide open and passed on. | |
The order was given to halt and down knapsacks. | |
Bagratión rode round the ranks that had marched past him and | |
dismounted. He gave the reins to a Cossack, took off and handed over his | |
felt coat, stretched his legs, and set his cap straight. The head of the | |
French column, with its officers leading, appeared from below the hill. | |
“Forward, with God!” said Bagratión, in a resolute, sonorous voice, | |
turning for a moment to the front line, and slightly swinging his arms, | |
he went forward uneasily over the rough field with the awkward gait of | |
a cavalryman. Prince Andrew felt that an invisible power was leading him | |
forward, and experienced great happiness. | |
The French were already near. Prince Andrew, walking beside Bagratión, | |
could clearly distinguish their bandoliers, red epaulets, and even their | |
faces. (He distinctly saw an old French officer who, with gaitered | |
legs and turned-out toes, climbed the hill with difficulty.) Prince | |
Bagratión gave no further orders and silently continued to walk on in | |
front of the ranks. Suddenly one shot after another rang out from the | |
French, smoke appeared all along their uneven ranks, and musket shots | |
sounded. Several of our men fell, among them the round-faced officer | |
who had marched so gaily and complacently. But at the moment the first | |
report was heard, Bagratión looked round and shouted, “Hurrah!” | |
“Hurrah—ah!—ah!” rang a long-drawn shout from our ranks, and | |
passing Bagratión and racing one another they rushed in an irregular | |
but joyous and eager crowd down the hill at their disordered foe. | |
CHAPTER XIX | |
The attack of the Sixth Chasseurs secured the retreat of our right | |
flank. In the center Túshin’s forgotten battery, which had managed to | |
set fire to the Schön Grabern village, delayed the French advance. The | |
French were putting out the fire which the wind was spreading, and thus | |
gave us time to retreat. The retirement of the center to the other side | |
of the dip in the ground at the rear was hurried and noisy, but the | |
different companies did not get mixed. But our left—which consisted | |
of the Azóv and Podólsk infantry and the Pávlograd hussars—was | |
simultaneously attacked and outflanked by superior French forces under | |
Lannes and was thrown into confusion. Bagratión had sent Zherkóv | |
to the general commanding that left flank with orders to retreat | |
immediately. | |
Zherkóv, not removing his hand from his cap, turned his horse about | |
and galloped off. But no sooner had he left Bagratión than his courage | |
failed him. He was seized by panic and could not go where it was | |
dangerous. | |
Having reached the left flank, instead of going to the front where the | |
firing was, he began to look for the general and his staff where they | |
could not possibly be, and so did not deliver the order. | |
The command of the left flank belonged by seniority to the commander of | |
the regiment Kutúzov had reviewed at Braunau and in which Dólokhov was | |
serving as a private. But the command of the extreme left flank had been | |
assigned to the commander of the Pávlograd regiment in which Rostóv | |
was serving, and a misunderstanding arose. The two commanders were much | |
exasperated with one another and, long after the action had begun on | |
the right flank and the French were already advancing, were engaged | |
in discussion with the sole object of offending one another. But the | |
regiments, both cavalry and infantry, were by no means ready for the | |
impending action. From privates to general they were not expecting a | |
battle and were engaged in peaceful occupations, the cavalry feeding the | |
horses and the infantry collecting wood. | |
“He higher iss dan I in rank,” said the German colonel of the | |
hussars, flushing and addressing an adjutant who had ridden up, “so | |
let him do what he vill, but I cannot sacrifice my hussars... Bugler, | |
sount ze retreat!” | |
But haste was becoming imperative. Cannon and musketry, mingling | |
together, thundered on the right and in the center, while the capotes | |
of Lannes’ sharpshooters were already seen crossing the milldam and | |
forming up within twice the range of a musket shot. The general in | |
command of the infantry went toward his horse with jerky steps, and | |
having mounted drew himself up very straight and tall and rode to the | |
Pávlograd commander. The commanders met with polite bows but with | |
secret malevolence in their hearts. | |
“Once again, Colonel,” said the general, “I can’t leave half | |
my men in the wood. I beg of you, I beg of you,” he repeated, “to | |
occupy the position and prepare for an attack.” | |
“I peg of you yourself not to mix in vot is not your business!” | |
suddenly replied the irate colonel. “If you vere in the cavalry...” | |
“I am not in the cavalry, Colonel, but I am a Russian general and if | |
you are not aware of the fact...” | |
“Quite avare, your excellency,” suddenly shouted the colonel, | |
touching his horse and turning purple in the face. “Vill you be so | |
goot to come to ze front and see dat zis position iss no goot? I don’t | |
vish to destroy my men for your pleasure!” | |
“You forget yourself, Colonel. I am not considering my own pleasure | |
and I won’t allow it to be said!” | |
Taking the colonel’s outburst as a challenge to his courage, the | |
general expanded his chest and rode, frowning, beside him to the | |
front line, as if their differences would be settled there amongst the | |
bullets. They reached the front, several bullets sped over them, and | |
they halted in silence. There was nothing fresh to be seen from the | |
line, for from where they had been before it had been evident that it | |
was impossible for cavalry to act among the bushes and broken ground, | |
as well as that the French were outflanking our left. The general | |
and colonel looked sternly and significantly at one another like two | |
fighting cocks preparing for battle, each vainly trying to detect signs | |
of cowardice in the other. Both passed the examination successfully. As | |
there was nothing to be said, and neither wished to give occasion for | |
it to be alleged that he had been the first to leave the range of fire, | |
they would have remained there for a long time testing each other’s | |
courage had it not been that just then they heard the rattle of musketry | |
and a muffled shout almost behind them in the wood. The French had | |
attacked the men collecting wood in the copse. It was no longer possible | |
for the hussars to retreat with the infantry. They were cut off from | |
the line of retreat on the left by the French. However inconvenient the | |
position, it was now necessary to attack in order to cut a way through | |
for themselves. | |
The squadron in which Rostóv was serving had scarcely time to mount | |
before it was halted facing the enemy. Again, as at the Enns bridge, | |
there was nothing between the squadron and the enemy, and again that | |
terrible dividing line of uncertainty and fear—resembling the line | |
separating the living from the dead—lay between them. All were | |
conscious of this unseen line, and the question whether they would cross | |
it or not, and how they would cross it, agitated them all. | |
The colonel rode to the front, angrily gave some reply to questions put | |
to him by the officers, and, like a man desperately insisting on having | |
his own way, gave an order. No one said anything definite, but the rumor | |
of an attack spread through the squadron. The command to form up rang | |
out and the sabers whizzed as they were drawn from their scabbards. | |
Still no one moved. The troops of the left flank, infantry and hussars | |
alike, felt that the commander did not himself know what to do, and this | |
irresolution communicated itself to the men. | |
“If only they would be quick!” thought Rostóv, feeling that at last | |
the time had come to experience the joy of an attack of which he had so | |
often heard from his fellow hussars. | |
“Fo’ward, with God, lads!” rang out Denísov’s voice. “At a | |
twot fo’ward!” | |
The horses’ croups began to sway in the front line. Rook pulled at the | |
reins and started of his own accord. | |
Before him, on the right, Rostóv saw the front lines of his hussars and | |
still farther ahead a dark line which he could not see distinctly but | |
took to be the enemy. Shots could be heard, but some way off. | |
“Faster!” came the word of command, and Rostóv felt Rook’s flanks | |
drooping as he broke into a gallop. | |
Rostóv anticipated his horse’s movements and became more and more | |
elated. He had noticed a solitary tree ahead of him. This tree had been | |
in the middle of the line that had seemed so terrible—and now he | |
had crossed that line and not only was there nothing terrible, but | |
everything was becoming more and more happy and animated. “Oh, how I | |
will slash at him!” thought Rostóv, gripping the hilt of his saber. | |
“Hur-a-a-a-ah!” came a roar of voices. “Let anyone come my way | |
now,” thought Rostóv driving his spurs into Rook and letting him go | |
at a full gallop so that he outstripped the others. Ahead, the enemy was | |
already visible. Suddenly something like a birch broom seemed to sweep | |
over the squadron. Rostóv raised his saber, ready to strike, but at | |
that instant the trooper Nikítenko, who was galloping ahead, shot away | |
from him, and Rostóv felt as in a dream that he continued to be carried | |
forward with unnatural speed but yet stayed on the same spot. From | |
behind him Bondarchúk, an hussar he knew, jolted against him and looked | |
angrily at him. Bondarchúk’s horse swerved and galloped past. | |
“How is it I am not moving? I have fallen, I am killed!” Rostóv | |
asked and answered at the same instant. He was alone in the middle of a | |
field. Instead of the moving horses and hussars’ backs, he saw nothing | |
before him but the motionless earth and the stubble around him. There | |
was warm blood under his arm. “No, I am wounded and the horse is | |
killed.” Rook tried to rise on his forelegs but fell back, pinning his | |
rider’s leg. Blood was flowing from his head; he struggled but could | |
not rise. Rostóv also tried to rise but fell back, his sabretache | |
having become entangled in the saddle. Where our men were, and where the | |
French, he did not know. There was no one near. | |
Having disentangled his leg, he rose. “Where, on which side, was now | |
the line that had so sharply divided the two armies?” he asked himself | |
and could not answer. “Can something bad have happened to me?” | |
he wondered as he got up: and at that moment he felt that something | |
superfluous was hanging on his benumbed left arm. The wrist felt as if | |
it were not his. He examined his hand carefully, vainly trying to find | |
blood on it. “Ah, here are people coming,” he thought joyfully, | |
seeing some men running toward him. “They will help me!” In front | |
came a man wearing a strange shako and a blue cloak, swarthy, sunburned, | |
and with a hooked nose. Then came two more, and many more running | |
behind. One of them said something strange, not in Russian. In among the | |
hindmost of these men wearing similar shakos was a Russian hussar. He | |
was being held by the arms and his horse was being led behind him. | |
“It must be one of ours, a prisoner. Yes. Can it be that they will | |
take me too? Who are these men?” thought Rostóv, scarcely believing | |
his eyes. “Can they be French?” He looked at the approaching | |
Frenchmen, and though but a moment before he had been galloping to get | |
at them and hack them to pieces, their proximity now seemed so awful | |
that he could not believe his eyes. “Who are they? Why are they | |
running? Can they be coming at me? And why? To kill me? Me whom everyone | |
is so fond of?” He remembered his mother’s love for him, and his | |
family’s, and his friends’, and the enemy’s intention to kill him | |
seemed impossible. “But perhaps they may do it!” For more than ten | |
seconds he stood not moving from the spot or realizing the situation. | |
The foremost Frenchman, the one with the hooked nose, was already so | |
close that the expression of his face could be seen. And the excited, | |
alien face of that man, his bayonet hanging down, holding his breath, | |
and running so lightly, frightened Rostóv. He seized his pistol and, | |
instead of firing it, flung it at the Frenchman and ran with all his | |
might toward the bushes. He did not now run with the feeling of doubt | |
and conflict with which he had trodden the Enns bridge, but with the | |
feeling of a hare fleeing from the hounds. One single sentiment, that | |
of fear for his young and happy life, possessed his whole being. Rapidly | |
leaping the furrows, he fled across the field with the impetuosity he | |
used to show at catchplay, now and then turning his good-natured, pale, | |
young face to look back. A shudder of terror went through him: “No, | |
better not look,” he thought, but having reached the bushes he glanced | |
round once more. The French had fallen behind, and just as he looked | |
round the first man changed his run to a walk and, turning, shouted | |
something loudly to a comrade farther back. Rostóv paused. “No, | |
there’s some mistake,” thought he. “They can’t have wanted to | |
kill me.” But at the same time, his left arm felt as heavy as if | |
a seventy-pound weight were tied to it. He could run no more. The | |
Frenchman also stopped and took aim. Rostóv closed his eyes and stooped | |
down. One bullet and then another whistled past him. He mustered his | |
last remaining strength, took hold of his left hand with his right, and | |
reached the bushes. Behind these were some Russian sharpshooters. | |
CHAPTER XX | |
The infantry regiments that had been caught unawares in the outskirts | |
of the wood ran out of it, the different companies getting mixed, and | |
retreated as a disorderly crowd. One soldier, in his fear, uttered the | |
senseless cry, “Cut off!” that is so terrible in battle, and that | |
word infected the whole crowd with a feeling of panic. | |
“Surrounded! Cut off? We’re lost!” shouted the fugitives. | |
The moment he heard the firing and the cry from behind, the general | |
realized that something dreadful had happened to his regiment, and the | |
thought that he, an exemplary officer of many years’ service who | |
had never been to blame, might be held responsible at headquarters | |
for negligence or inefficiency so staggered him that, forgetting the | |
recalcitrant cavalry colonel, his own dignity as a general, and above | |
all quite forgetting the danger and all regard for self-preservation, he | |
clutched the crupper of his saddle and, spurring his horse, galloped to | |
the regiment under a hail of bullets which fell around, but fortunately | |
missed him. His one desire was to know what was happening and at any | |
cost correct, or remedy, the mistake if he had made one, so that he, | |
an exemplary officer of twenty-two years’ service, who had never been | |
censured, should not be held to blame. | |
Having galloped safely through the French, he reached a field behind | |
the copse across which our men, regardless of orders, were running and | |
descending the valley. That moment of moral hesitation which decides | |
the fate of battles had arrived. Would this disorderly crowd of soldiers | |
attend to the voice of their commander, or would they, disregarding him, | |
continue their flight? Despite his desperate shouts that used to seem | |
so terrible to the soldiers, despite his furious purple countenance | |
distorted out of all likeness to his former self, and the flourishing of | |
his saber, the soldiers all continued to run, talking, firing into the | |
air, and disobeying orders. The moral hesitation which decided the fate | |
of battles was evidently culminating in a panic. | |
The general had a fit of coughing as a result of shouting and of the | |
powder smoke and stopped in despair. Everything seemed lost. But at that | |
moment the French who were attacking, suddenly and without any apparent | |
reason, ran back and disappeared from the outskirts, and Russian | |
sharpshooters showed themselves in the copse. It was Timókhin’s | |
company, which alone had maintained its order in the wood and, having | |
lain in ambush in a ditch, now attacked the French unexpectedly. | |
Timókhin, armed only with a sword, had rushed at the enemy with such | |
a desperate cry and such mad, drunken determination that, taken by | |
surprise, the French had thrown down their muskets and run. Dólokhov, | |
running beside Timókhin, killed a Frenchman at close quarters and was | |
the first to seize the surrendering French officer by his collar. Our | |
fugitives returned, the battalions re-formed, and the French who had | |
nearly cut our left flank in half were for the moment repulsed. Our | |
reserve units were able to join up, and the fight was at an end. The | |
regimental commander and Major Ekonómov had stopped beside a bridge, | |
letting the retreating companies pass by them, when a soldier came up | |
and took hold of the commander’s stirrup, almost leaning against him. | |
The man was wearing a bluish coat of broadcloth, he had no knapsack | |
or cap, his head was bandaged, and over his shoulder a French munition | |
pouch was slung. He had an officer’s sword in his hand. The soldier | |
was pale, his blue eyes looked impudently into the commander’s face, | |
and his lips were smiling. Though the commander was occupied in giving | |
instructions to Major Ekonómov, he could not help taking notice of the | |
soldier. | |
“Your excellency, here are two trophies,” said Dólokhov, pointing | |
to the French sword and pouch. “I have taken an officer prisoner. I | |
stopped the company.” Dólokhov breathed heavily from weariness and | |
spoke in abrupt sentences. “The whole company can bear witness. I beg | |
you will remember this, your excellency!” | |
“All right, all right,” replied the commander, and turned to Major | |
Ekonómov. | |
But Dólokhov did not go away; he untied the handkerchief around his | |
head, pulled it off, and showed the blood congealed on his hair. | |
“A bayonet wound. I remained at the front. Remember, your | |
excellency!” | |
Túshin’s battery had been forgotten and only at the very end of the | |
action did Prince Bagratión, still hearing the cannonade in the center, | |
send his orderly staff officer, and later Prince Andrew also, to order | |
the battery to retire as quickly as possible. When the supports attached | |
to Túshin’s battery had been moved away in the middle of the action | |
by someone’s order, the battery had continued firing and was only not | |
captured by the French because the enemy could not surmise that anyone | |
could have the effrontery to continue firing from four quite undefended | |
guns. On the contrary, the energetic action of that battery led the | |
French to suppose that here—in the center—the main Russian forces | |
were concentrated. Twice they had attempted to attack this point, but on | |
each occasion had been driven back by grapeshot from the four isolated | |
guns on the hillock. | |
Soon after Prince Bagratión had left him, Túshin had succeeded in | |
setting fire to Schön Grabern. | |
“Look at them scurrying! It’s burning! Just see the smoke! Fine! | |
Grand! Look at the smoke, the smoke!” exclaimed the artillerymen, | |
brightening up. | |
All the guns, without waiting for orders, were being fired in the | |
direction of the conflagration. As if urging each other on, the soldiers | |
cried at each shot: “Fine! That’s good! Look at it... Grand!” The | |
fire, fanned by the breeze, was rapidly spreading. The French columns | |
that had advanced beyond the village went back; but as though in revenge | |
for this failure, the enemy placed ten guns to the right of the village | |
and began firing them at Túshin’s battery. | |
In their childlike glee, aroused by the fire and their luck in | |
successfully cannonading the French, our artillerymen only noticed this | |
battery when two balls, and then four more, fell among our guns, one | |
knocking over two horses and another tearing off a munition-wagon | |
driver’s leg. Their spirits once roused were, however, not diminished, | |
but only changed character. The horses were replaced by others from a | |
reserve gun carriage, the wounded were carried away, and the four guns | |
were turned against the ten-gun battery. Túshin’s companion officer | |
had been killed at the beginning of the engagement and within an hour | |
seventeen of the forty men of the guns’ crews had been disabled, but | |
the artillerymen were still as merry and lively as ever. Twice they | |
noticed the French appearing below them, and then they fired grapeshot | |
at them. | |
Little Túshin, moving feebly and awkwardly, kept telling his orderly to | |
“refill my pipe for that one!” and then, scattering sparks from it, | |
ran forward shading his eyes with his small hand to look at the French. | |
“Smack at ‘em, lads!” he kept saying, seizing the guns by the | |
wheels and working the screws himself. | |
Amid the smoke, deafened by the incessant reports which always made him | |
jump, Túshin not taking his pipe from his mouth ran from gun to gun, | |
now aiming, now counting the charges, now giving orders about replacing | |
dead or wounded horses and harnessing fresh ones, and shouting in his | |
feeble voice, so high pitched and irresolute. His face grew more and | |
more animated. Only when a man was killed or wounded did he frown and | |
turn away from the sight, shouting angrily at the men who, as is always | |
the case, hesitated about lifting the injured or dead. The soldiers, | |
for the most part handsome fellows and, as is always the case in an | |
artillery company, a head and shoulders taller and twice as broad | |
as their officer—all looked at their commander like children in an | |
embarrassing situation, and the expression on his face was invariably | |
reflected on theirs. | |
Owing to the terrible uproar and the necessity for concentration and | |
activity, Túshin did not experience the slightest unpleasant sense of | |
fear, and the thought that he might be killed or badly wounded never | |
occurred to him. On the contrary, he became more and more elated. It | |
seemed to him that it was a very long time ago, almost a day, since he | |
had first seen the enemy and fired the first shot, and that the corner | |
of the field he stood on was well-known and familiar ground. Though he | |
thought of everything, considered everything, and did everything the | |
best of officers could do in his position, he was in a state akin to | |
feverish delirium or drunkenness. | |
From the deafening sounds of his own guns around him, the whistle and | |
thud of the enemy’s cannon balls, from the flushed and perspiring | |
faces of the crew bustling round the guns, from the sight of the blood | |
of men and horses, from the little puffs of smoke on the enemy’s side | |
(always followed by a ball flying past and striking the earth, a man, a | |
gun, a horse), from the sight of all these things a fantastic world of | |
his own had taken possession of his brain and at that moment afforded | |
him pleasure. The enemy’s guns were in his fancy not guns but pipes | |
from which occasional puffs were blown by an invisible smoker. | |
“There... he’s puffing again,” muttered Túshin to himself, as a | |
small cloud rose from the hill and was borne in a streak to the left by | |
the wind. | |
“Now look out for the ball... we’ll throw it back.” | |
“What do you want, your honor?” asked an artilleryman, standing | |
close by, who heard him muttering. | |
“Nothing... only a shell...” he answered. | |
“Come along, our Matvévna!” he said to himself. “Matvévna” * | |
was the name his fancy gave to the farthest gun of the battery, which | |
was large and of an old pattern. The French swarming round their guns | |
seemed to him like ants. In that world, the handsome drunkard Number One | |
of the second gun’s crew was “uncle”; Túshin looked at him more | |
often than at anyone else and took delight in his every movement. | |
The sound of musketry at the foot of the hill, now diminishing, now | |
increasing, seemed like someone’s breathing. He listened intently to | |
the ebb and flow of these sounds. | |
* Daughter of Matthew. | |
“Ah! Breathing again, breathing!” he muttered to himself. | |
He imagined himself as an enormously tall, powerful man who was throwing | |
cannon balls at the French with both hands. | |
“Now then, Matvévna, dear old lady, don’t let me down!” he was | |
saying as he moved from the gun, when a strange, unfamiliar voice called | |
above his head: “Captain Túshin! Captain!” | |
Túshin turned round in dismay. It was the staff officer who had turned | |
him out of the booth at Grunth. He was shouting in a gasping voice: | |
“Are you mad? You have twice been ordered to retreat, and you...” | |
“Why are they down on me?” thought Túshin, looking in alarm at his | |
superior. | |
“I... don’t...” he muttered, holding up two fingers to his cap. | |
“I...” | |
But the staff officer did not finish what he wanted to say. A cannon | |
ball, flying close to him, caused him to duck and bend over his horse. | |
He paused, and just as he was about to say something more, another ball | |
stopped him. He turned his horse and galloped off. | |
“Retire! All to retire!” he shouted from a distance. | |
The soldiers laughed. A moment later, an adjutant arrived with the same | |
order. | |
It was Prince Andrew. The first thing he saw on riding up to the space | |
where Túshin’s guns were stationed was an unharnessed horse with a | |
broken leg, that lay screaming piteously beside the harnessed horses. | |
Blood was gushing from its leg as from a spring. Among the limbers lay | |
several dead men. One ball after another passed over as he approached | |
and he felt a nervous shudder run down his spine. But the mere thought | |
of being afraid roused him again. “I cannot be afraid,” thought he, | |
and dismounted slowly among the guns. He delivered the order and did | |
not leave the battery. He decided to have the guns removed from their | |
positions and withdrawn in his presence. Together with Túshin, stepping | |
across the bodies and under a terrible fire from the French, he attended | |
to the removal of the guns. | |
“A staff officer was here a minute ago, but skipped off,” said an | |
artilleryman to Prince Andrew. “Not like your honor!” | |
Prince Andrew said nothing to Túshin. They were both so busy as to seem | |
not to notice one another. When having limbered up the only two cannon | |
that remained uninjured out of the four, they began moving down the hill | |
(one shattered gun and one unicorn were left behind), Prince Andrew rode | |
up to Túshin. | |
“Well, till we meet again...” he said, holding out his hand to | |
Túshin. | |
“Good-by, my dear fellow,” said Túshin. “Dear soul! Good-by, my | |
dear fellow!” and for some unknown reason tears suddenly filled his | |
eyes. | |
CHAPTER XXI | |
The wind had fallen and black clouds, merging with the powder smoke, | |
hung low over the field of battle on the horizon. It was growing | |
dark and the glow of two conflagrations was the more conspicuous. The | |
cannonade was dying down, but the rattle of musketry behind and on the | |
right sounded oftener and nearer. As soon as Túshin with his guns, | |
continually driving round or coming upon wounded men, was out of range | |
of fire and had descended into the dip, he was met by some of the staff, | |
among them the staff officer and Zherkóv, who had been twice sent to | |
Túshin’s battery but had never reached it. Interrupting one | |
another, they all gave, and transmitted, orders as to how to proceed, | |
reprimanding and reproaching him. Túshin gave no orders, and, | |
silently—fearing to speak because at every word he felt ready to | |
weep without knowing why—rode behind on his artillery nag. Though | |
the orders were to abandon the wounded, many of them dragged themselves | |
after troops and begged for seats on the gun carriages. The jaunty | |
infantry officer who just before the battle had rushed out of | |
Túshin’s wattle shed was laid, with a bullet in his stomach, on | |
“Matvévna’s” carriage. At the foot of the hill, a pale hussar | |
cadet, supporting one hand with the other, came up to Túshin and asked | |
for a seat. | |
“Captain, for God’s sake! I’ve hurt my arm,” he said timidly. | |
“For God’s sake... I can’t walk. For God’s sake!” | |
It was plain that this cadet had already repeatedly asked for a lift and | |
been refused. He asked in a hesitating, piteous voice. | |
“Tell them to give me a seat, for God’s sake!” | |
“Give him a seat,” said Túshin. “Lay a cloak for him to sit on, | |
lad,” he said, addressing his favorite soldier. “And where is the | |
wounded officer?” | |
“He has been set down. He died,” replied someone. | |
“Help him up. Sit down, dear fellow, sit down! Spread out the cloak, | |
Antónov.” | |
The cadet was Rostóv. With one hand he supported the other; he was | |
pale and his jaw trembled, shivering feverishly. He was placed on | |
“Matvévna,” the gun from which they had removed the dead officer. | |
The cloak they spread under him was wet with blood which stained his | |
breeches and arm. | |
“What, are you wounded, my lad?” said Túshin, approaching the gun | |
on which Rostóv sat. | |
“No, it’s a sprain.” | |
“Then what is this blood on the gun carriage?” inquired Túshin. | |
“It was the officer, your honor, stained it,” answered the | |
artilleryman, wiping away the blood with his coat sleeve, as if | |
apologizing for the state of his gun. | |
It was all that they could do to get the guns up the rise aided by the | |
infantry, and having reached the village of Gruntersdorf they halted. It | |
had grown so dark that one could not distinguish the uniforms ten paces | |
off, and the firing had begun to subside. Suddenly, near by on the | |
right, shouting and firing were again heard. Flashes of shot gleamed in | |
the darkness. This was the last French attack and was met by soldiers | |
who had sheltered in the village houses. They all rushed out of | |
the village again, but Túshin’s guns could not move, and the | |
artillerymen, Túshin, and the cadet exchanged silent glances as they | |
awaited their fate. The firing died down and soldiers, talking eagerly, | |
streamed out of a side street. | |
“Not hurt, Petróv?” asked one. | |
“We’ve given it ‘em hot, mate! They won’t make another push | |
now,” said another. | |
“You couldn’t see a thing. How they shot at their own fellows! | |
Nothing could be seen. Pitch-dark, brother! Isn’t there something to | |
drink?” | |
The French had been repulsed for the last time. And again and again in | |
the complete darkness Túshin’s guns moved forward, surrounded by the | |
humming infantry as by a frame. | |
In the darkness, it seemed as though a gloomy unseen river was flowing | |
always in one direction, humming with whispers and talk and the sound of | |
hoofs and wheels. Amid the general rumble, the groans and voices of the | |
wounded were more distinctly heard than any other sound in the darkness | |
of the night. The gloom that enveloped the army was filled with their | |
groans, which seemed to melt into one with the darkness of the night. | |
After a while the moving mass became agitated, someone rode past on | |
a white horse followed by his suite, and said something in passing: | |
“What did he say? Where to, now? Halt, is it? Did he thank us?” came | |
eager questions from all sides. The whole moving mass began pressing | |
closer together and a report spread that they were ordered to halt: | |
evidently those in front had halted. All remained where they were in the | |
middle of the muddy road. | |
Fires were lighted and the talk became more audible. Captain Túshin, | |
having given orders to his company, sent a soldier to find a dressing | |
station or a doctor for the cadet, and sat down by a bonfire the | |
soldiers had kindled on the road. Rostóv, too, dragged himself to the | |
fire. From pain, cold, and damp, a feverish shivering shook his whole | |
body. Drowsiness was irresistibly mastering him, but he kept awake by | |
an excruciating pain in his arm, for which he could find no satisfactory | |
position. He kept closing his eyes and then again looking at the fire, | |
which seemed to him dazzlingly red, and at the feeble, round-shouldered | |
figure of Túshin who was sitting cross-legged like a Turk beside him. | |
Túshin’s large, kind, intelligent eyes were fixed with sympathy and | |
commiseration on Rostóv, who saw that Túshin with his whole heart | |
wished to help him but could not. | |
From all sides were heard the footsteps and talk of the infantry, who | |
were walking, driving past, and settling down all around. The sound | |
of voices, the tramping feet, the horses’ hoofs moving in mud, the | |
crackling of wood fires near and afar, merged into one tremulous rumble. | |
It was no longer, as before, a dark, unseen river flowing through the | |
gloom, but a dark sea swelling and gradually subsiding after a storm. | |
Rostóv looked at and listened listlessly to what passed before and | |
around him. An infantryman came to the fire, squatted on his heels, held | |
his hands to the blaze, and turned away his face. | |
“You don’t mind your honor?” he asked Túshin. “I’ve lost my | |
company, your honor. I don’t know where... such bad luck!” | |
With the soldier, an infantry officer with a bandaged cheek came up to | |
the bonfire, and addressing Túshin asked him to have the guns moved a | |
trifle to let a wagon go past. After he had gone, two soldiers rushed to | |
the campfire. They were quarreling and fighting desperately, each trying | |
to snatch from the other a boot they were both holding on to. | |
“You picked it up?... I dare say! You’re very smart!” one of them | |
shouted hoarsely. | |
Then a thin, pale soldier, his neck bandaged with a bloodstained leg | |
band, came up and in angry tones asked the artillerymen for water. | |
“Must one die like a dog?” said he. | |
Túshin told them to give the man some water. Then a cheerful soldier | |
ran up, begging a little fire for the infantry. | |
“A nice little hot torch for the infantry! Good luck to you, fellow | |
countrymen. Thanks for the fire—we’ll return it with interest,” | |
said he, carrying away into the darkness a glowing stick. | |
Next came four soldiers, carrying something heavy on a cloak, and passed | |
by the fire. One of them stumbled. | |
“Who the devil has put the logs on the road?” snarled he. | |
“He’s dead—why carry him?” said another. | |
“Shut up!” | |
And they disappeared into the darkness with their load. | |
“Still aching?” Túshin asked Rostóv in a whisper. | |
“Yes.” | |
“Your honor, you’re wanted by the general. He is in the hut here,” | |
said a gunner, coming up to Túshin. | |
“Coming, friend.” | |
Túshin rose and, buttoning his greatcoat and pulling it straight, | |
walked away from the fire. | |
Not far from the artillery campfire, in a hut that had been prepared | |
for him, Prince Bagratión sat at dinner, talking with some commanding | |
officers who had gathered at his quarters. The little old man with | |
the half-closed eyes was there greedily gnawing a mutton bone, and the | |
general who had served blamelessly for twenty-two years, flushed by a | |
glass of vodka and the dinner; and the staff officer with the signet | |
ring, and Zherkóv, uneasily glancing at them all, and Prince Andrew, | |
pale, with compressed lips and feverishly glittering eyes. | |
In a corner of the hut stood a standard captured from the French, and | |
the accountant with the naïve face was feeling its texture, shaking his | |
head in perplexity—perhaps because the banner really interested him, | |
perhaps because it was hard for him, hungry as he was, to look on at | |
a dinner where there was no place for him. In the next hut there was a | |
French colonel who had been taken prisoner by our dragoons. Our officers | |
were flocking in to look at him. Prince Bagratión was thanking the | |
individual commanders and inquiring into details of the action and our | |
losses. The general whose regiment had been inspected at Braunau was | |
informing the prince that as soon as the action began he had withdrawn | |
from the wood, mustered the men who were woodcutting, and, allowing the | |
French to pass him, had made a bayonet charge with two battalions and | |
had broken up the French troops. | |
“When I saw, your excellency, that their first battalion was | |
disorganized, I stopped in the road and thought: ‘I’ll let them | |
come on and will meet them with the fire of the whole battalion’—and | |
that’s what I did.” | |
The general had so wished to do this and was so sorry he had not managed | |
to do it that it seemed to him as if it had really happened. Perhaps | |
it might really have been so? Could one possibly make out amid all that | |
confusion what did or did not happen? | |
“By the way, your excellency, I should inform you,” he | |
continued—remembering Dólokhov’s conversation with Kutúzov and his | |
last interview with the gentleman-ranker—“that Private Dólokhov, | |
who was reduced to the ranks, took a French officer prisoner in my | |
presence and particularly distinguished himself.” | |
“I saw the Pávlograd hussars attack there, your excellency,” chimed | |
in Zherkóv, looking uneasily around. He had not seen the hussars all | |
that day, but had heard about them from an infantry officer. “They | |
broke up two squares, your excellency.” | |
Several of those present smiled at Zherkóv’s words, expecting one of | |
his usual jokes, but noticing that what he was saying redounded to | |
the glory of our arms and of the day’s work, they assumed a serious | |
expression, though many of them knew that what he was saying was a lie | |
devoid of any foundation. Prince Bagratión turned to the old colonel: | |
“Gentlemen, I thank you all; all arms have behaved heroically: | |
infantry, cavalry, and artillery. How was it that two guns were | |
abandoned in the center?” he inquired, searching with his eyes for | |
someone. (Prince Bagratión did not ask about the guns on the left | |
flank; he knew that all the guns there had been abandoned at the very | |
beginning of the action.) “I think I sent you?” he added, turning to | |
the staff officer on duty. | |
“One was damaged,” answered the staff officer, “and the other I | |
can’t understand. I was there all the time giving orders and had only | |
just left.... It is true that it was hot there,” he added, modestly. | |
Someone mentioned that Captain Túshin was bivouacking close to the | |
village and had already been sent for. | |
“Oh, but you were there?” said Prince Bagratión, addressing Prince | |
Andrew. | |
“Of course, we only just missed one another,” said the staff | |
officer, with a smile to Bolkónski. | |
“I had not the pleasure of seeing you,” said Prince Andrew, coldly | |
and abruptly. | |
All were silent. Túshin appeared at the threshold and made his way | |
timidly from behind the backs of the generals. As he stepped past the | |
generals in the crowded hut, feeling embarrassed as he always was by the | |
sight of his superiors, he did not notice the staff of the banner and | |
stumbled over it. Several of those present laughed. | |
“How was it a gun was abandoned?” asked Bagratión, frowning, not so | |
much at the captain as at those who were laughing, among whom Zherkóv | |
laughed loudest. | |
Only now, when he was confronted by the stern authorities, did his guilt | |
and the disgrace of having lost two guns and yet remaining alive present | |
themselves to Túshin in all their horror. He had been so excited that | |
he had not thought about it until that moment. The officers’ laughter | |
confused him still more. He stood before Bagratión with his lower | |
jaw trembling and was hardly able to mutter: “I don’t know... your | |
excellency... I had no men... your excellency.” | |
“You might have taken some from the covering troops.” | |
Túshin did not say that there were no covering troops, though that | |
was perfectly true. He was afraid of getting some other officer into | |
trouble, and silently fixed his eyes on Bagratión as a schoolboy who | |
has blundered looks at an examiner. | |
The silence lasted some time. Prince Bagratión, apparently not wishing | |
to be severe, found nothing to say; the others did not venture to | |
intervene. Prince Andrew looked at Túshin from under his brows and his | |
fingers twitched nervously. | |
“Your excellency!” Prince Andrew broke the silence with his abrupt | |
voice, “you were pleased to send me to Captain Túshin’s battery. I | |
went there and found two thirds of the men and horses knocked out, two | |
guns smashed, and no supports at all.” | |
Prince Bagratión and Túshin looked with equal intentness at | |
Bolkónski, who spoke with suppressed agitation. | |
“And, if your excellency will allow me to express my opinion,” he | |
continued, “we owe today’s success chiefly to the action of that | |
battery and the heroic endurance of Captain Túshin and his company,” | |
and without awaiting a reply, Prince Andrew rose and left the table. | |
Prince Bagratión looked at Túshin, evidently reluctant to show | |
distrust in Bolkónski’s emphatic opinion yet not feeling able fully | |
to credit it, bent his head, and told Túshin that he could go. Prince | |
Andrew went out with him. | |
“Thank you; you saved me, my dear fellow!” said Túshin. | |
Prince Andrew gave him a look, but said nothing and went away. He felt | |
sad and depressed. It was all so strange, so unlike what he had hoped. | |
“Who are they? Why are they here? What do they want? And when will | |
all this end?” thought Rostóv, looking at the changing shadows before | |
him. The pain in his arm became more and more intense. Irresistible | |
drowsiness overpowered him, red rings danced before his eyes, and the | |
impression of those voices and faces and a sense of loneliness merged | |
with the physical pain. It was they, these soldiers—wounded and | |
unwounded—it was they who were crushing, weighing down, and twisting | |
the sinews and scorching the flesh of his sprained arm and shoulder. To | |
rid himself of them he closed his eyes. | |
For a moment he dozed, but in that short interval innumerable things | |
appeared to him in a dream: his mother and her large white hand, | |
Sónya’s thin little shoulders, Natásha’s eyes and laughter, | |
Denísov with his voice and mustache, and Telyánin and all that affair | |
with Telyánin and Bogdánich. That affair was the same thing as this | |
soldier with the harsh voice, and it was that affair and this soldier | |
that were so agonizingly, incessantly pulling and pressing his arm and | |
always dragging it in one direction. He tried to get away from them, but | |
they would not for an instant let his shoulder move a hair’s breadth. | |
It would not ache—it would be well—if only they did not pull it, but | |
it was impossible to get rid of them. | |
He opened his eyes and looked up. The black canopy of night hung less | |
than a yard above the glow of the charcoal. Flakes of falling snow were | |
fluttering in that light. Túshin had not returned, the doctor had not | |
come. He was alone now, except for a soldier who was sitting naked at | |
the other side of the fire, warming his thin yellow body. | |
“Nobody wants me!” thought Rostóv. “There is no one to help me or | |
pity me. Yet I was once at home, strong, happy, and loved.” He sighed | |
and, doing so, groaned involuntarily. | |
“Eh, is anything hurting you?” asked the soldier, shaking his shirt | |
out over the fire, and not waiting for an answer he gave a grunt and | |
added: “What a lot of men have been crippled today—frightful!” | |
Rostóv did not listen to the soldier. He looked at the snowflakes | |
fluttering above the fire and remembered a Russian winter at his warm, | |
bright home, his fluffy fur coat, his quickly gliding sleigh, his | |
healthy body, and all the affection and care of his family. “And why | |
did I come here?” he wondered. | |
Next day the French army did not renew their attack, and the remnant of | |
Bagratión’s detachment was reunited to Kutúzov’s army. | |
BOOK THREE: 1805 | |
CHAPTER I | |
Prince Vasíli was not a man who deliberately thought out his plans. | |
Still less did he think of injuring anyone for his own advantage. He | |
was merely a man of the world who had got on and to whom getting on had | |
become a habit. Schemes and devices for which he never rightly accounted | |
to himself, but which formed the whole interest of his life, | |
were constantly shaping themselves in his mind, arising from the | |
circumstances and persons he met. Of these plans he had not merely one | |
or two in his head but dozens, some only beginning to form themselves, | |
some approaching achievement, and some in course of disintegration. He | |
did not, for instance, say to himself: “This man now has influence, I | |
must gain his confidence and friendship and through him obtain a special | |
grant.” Nor did he say to himself: “Pierre is a rich man, I must | |
entice him to marry my daughter and lend me the forty thousand rubles | |
I need.” But when he came across a man of position his instinct | |
immediately told him that this man could be useful, and without any | |
premeditation Prince Vasíli took the first opportunity to gain his | |
confidence, flatter him, become intimate with him, and finally make his | |
request. | |
He had Pierre at hand in Moscow and procured for him an appointment as | |
Gentleman of the Bedchamber, which at that time conferred the status of | |
Councilor of State, and insisted on the young man accompanying him to | |
Petersburg and staying at his house. With apparent absent-mindedness, | |
yet with unhesitating assurance that he was doing the right thing, | |
Prince Vasíli did everything to get Pierre to marry his daughter. Had | |
he thought out his plans beforehand he could not have been so natural | |
and shown such unaffected familiarity in intercourse with everybody both | |
above and below him in social standing. Something always drew him toward | |
those richer and more powerful than himself and he had rare skill in | |
seizing the most opportune moment for making use of people. | |
Pierre, on unexpectedly becoming Count Bezúkhov 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 had to | |
sign papers, to present himself at government offices, the purpose of | |
which was not clear to him, to question his chief steward, to visit his | |
estate near Moscow, and to receive many people who formerly did not | |
even wish to know of his existence but would now have been offended | |
and grieved had he chosen not to see them. These different | |
people—businessmen, relations, and acquaintances alike—were all | |
disposed to treat the young heir in the most friendly and flattering | |
manner: they were all evidently firmly convinced of Pierre’s noble | |
qualities. 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. | |
Even people who had formerly been spiteful toward him and evidently | |
unfriendly now became gentle and affectionate. The angry eldest | |
princess, with the long waist and hair plastered down like a doll’s, | |
had come into Pierre’s room after the funeral. With drooping eyes | |
and frequent blushes she told him she was very sorry about their past | |
misunderstandings and did not now feel she had a right to ask him for | |
anything, except only for permission, after the blow she had received, | |
to remain for a few weeks longer in the house she so loved and where | |
she had sacrificed so much. She could not refrain from weeping at these | |
words. Touched that this statuesque princess could so change, Pierre | |
took her hand and begged her forgiveness, without knowing what for. | |
From that day the eldest princess quite changed toward Pierre and began | |
knitting a striped scarf for him. | |
“Do this for my sake, mon cher; after all, she had to put up with a | |
great deal from the deceased,” said Prince Vasíli to him, handing him | |
a deed to sign for the princess’ benefit. | |
Prince Vasíli had come to the conclusion that it was necessary to throw | |
this bone—a bill for thirty thousand rubles—to the poor princess | |
that it might not occur to her to speak of his share in the affair of | |
the inlaid portfolio. Pierre signed the deed and after that the princess | |
grew still kinder. The younger sisters also became affectionate to him, | |
especially the youngest, the pretty one with the mole, who often made | |
him feel confused by her smiles and her own confusion when meeting him. | |
It seemed so natural to Pierre that everyone should like him, and it | |
would have seemed so unnatural had anyone disliked him, that he could | |
not but believe in the sincerity of those around him. Besides, he had | |
no time to ask himself whether these people were sincere or not. He | |
was always busy and always felt in a state of mild and cheerful | |
intoxication. He felt as though he were the center of some important and | |
general movement; that something was constantly expected of him, that if | |
he did not do it he would grieve and disappoint many people, but if he | |
did this and that, all would be well; and he did what was demanded of | |
him, but still that happy result always remained in the future. | |
More than anyone else, Prince Vasíli took possession of Pierre’s | |
affairs and of Pierre himself in those early days. From the death of | |
Count Bezúkhov he did not let go his hold of the lad. He had the air of | |
a man oppressed by business, weary and suffering, who yet would not, for | |
pity’s sake, leave this helpless youth who, after all, was the son of | |
his old friend and the possessor of such enormous wealth, to the caprice | |
of fate and the designs of rogues. During the few days he spent in | |
Moscow after the death of Count Bezúkhov, he would call Pierre, or | |
go to him himself, and tell him what ought to be done in a tone of | |
weariness and assurance, as if he were adding every time: “You know | |
I am overwhelmed with business and it is purely out of charity that | |
I trouble myself about you, and you also know quite well that what I | |
propose is the only thing possible.” | |
“Well, my dear fellow, tomorrow we are off at last,” said Prince | |
Vasíli one day, closing his eyes and fingering Pierre’s elbow, | |
speaking as if he were saying something which had long since been agreed | |
upon and could not now be altered. “We start tomorrow and I’m giving | |
you a place in my carriage. I am very glad. All our important business | |
here is now settled, and I ought to have been off long ago. Here is | |
something I have received from the chancellor. I asked him for you, and | |
you have been entered in the diplomatic corps and made a Gentleman of | |
the Bedchamber. The diplomatic career now lies open before you.” | |
Notwithstanding the tone of wearied assurance with which these words | |
were pronounced, Pierre, who had so long been considering his career, | |
wished to make some suggestion. But Prince Vasíli interrupted him in | |
the special deep cooing tone, precluding the possibility of interrupting | |
his speech, which he used in extreme cases when special persuasion was | |
needed. | |
“Mais, mon cher, I did this for my own sake, to satisfy my conscience, | |
and there is nothing to thank me for. No one has ever complained yet of | |
being too much loved; and besides, you are free, you could throw it | |
up tomorrow. But you will see everything for yourself when you get to | |
Petersburg. It is high time for you to get away from these terrible | |
recollections.” Prince Vasíli sighed. “Yes, yes, my boy. And my | |
valet can go in your carriage. Ah! I was nearly forgetting,” he added. | |
“You know, mon cher, your father and I had some accounts to settle, so | |
I have received what was due from the Ryazán estate and will keep it; | |
you won’t require it. We’ll go into the accounts later.” | |
By “what was due from the Ryazán estate” Prince Vasíli meant | |
several thousand rubles quitrent received from Pierre’s peasants, | |
which the prince had retained for himself. | |
In Petersburg, as in Moscow, Pierre found the same atmosphere of | |
gentleness and affection. He could not refuse the post, or rather the | |
rank (for he did nothing), that Prince Vasíli had procured for him, | |
and acquaintances, invitations, and social occupations were so numerous | |
that, even more than in Moscow, he felt a sense of bewilderment, bustle, | |
and continual expectation of some good, always in front of him but never | |
attained. | |
Of his former bachelor acquaintances many were no longer in Petersburg. | |
The Guards had gone to the front; Dólokhov had been reduced to the | |
ranks; Anatole was in the army somewhere in the provinces; Prince Andrew | |
was abroad; so Pierre had not the opportunity to spend his nights as he | |
used to like to spend them, or to open his mind by intimate talks with | |
a friend older than himself and whom he respected. His whole time | |
was taken up with dinners and balls and was spent chiefly at Prince | |
Vasíli’s house in the company of the stout princess, his wife, and | |
his beautiful daughter Hélène. | |
Like the others, Anna Pávlovna Schérer showed Pierre the change of | |
attitude toward him that had taken place in society. | |
Formerly in Anna Pávlovna’s presence, Pierre had always felt that | |
what he was saying was out of place, tactless and unsuitable, that | |
remarks which seemed to him clever while they formed in his mind became | |
foolish as soon as he uttered them, while on the contrary Hippolyte’s | |
stupidest remarks came out clever and apt. Now everything Pierre said | |
was charmant. Even if Anna Pávlovna did not say so, he could see that | |
she wished to and only refrained out of regard for his modesty. | |
In the beginning of the winter of 1805-6 Pierre received one of Anna | |
Pávlovna’s usual pink notes with an invitation to which was added: | |
“You will find the beautiful Hélène here, whom it is always | |
delightful to see.” | |
When he read that sentence, Pierre felt for the first time that some | |
link which other people recognized had grown up between himself and | |
Hélène, and that thought both alarmed him, as if some obligation were | |
being imposed on him which he could not fulfill, and pleased him as an | |
entertaining supposition. | |
Anna Pávlovna’s “At Home” was like the former one, only the | |
novelty she offered her guests this time was not Mortemart, but a | |
diplomatist fresh from Berlin with the very latest details of the | |
Emperor Alexander’s visit to Potsdam, and of how the two august | |
friends had pledged themselves in an indissoluble alliance to uphold | |
the cause of justice against the enemy of the human race. Anna Pávlovna | |
received Pierre with a shade of melancholy, evidently relating to the | |
young man’s recent loss by the death of Count Bezúkhov (everyone | |
constantly considered it a duty to assure Pierre that he was greatly | |
afflicted by the death of the father he had hardly known), and her | |
melancholy was just like the august melancholy she showed at the mention | |
of her most august Majesty the Empress Márya Fëdorovna. Pierre felt | |
flattered by this. Anna Pávlovna arranged the different groups in her | |
drawing room with her habitual skill. The large group, in which were | |
Prince Vasíli and the generals, had the benefit of the diplomat. | |
Another group was at the tea table. Pierre wished to join the former, | |
but Anna Pávlovna—who was in the excited condition of a commander on | |
a battlefield to whom thousands of new and brilliant ideas occur which | |
there is hardly time to put in action—seeing Pierre, touched his | |
sleeve with her finger, saying: | |
“Wait a bit, I have something in view for you this evening.” | |
(She glanced at Hélène and smiled at her.) “My dear Hélène, be | |
charitable to my poor aunt who adores you. Go and keep her company for | |
ten minutes. And that it will not be too dull, here is the dear count | |
who will not refuse to accompany you.” | |
The beauty went to the aunt, but Anna Pávlovna detained Pierre, looking | |
as if she had to give some final necessary instructions. | |
“Isn’t she exquisite?” she said to Pierre, pointing to the stately | |
beauty as she glided away. “And how she carries herself! For so young | |
a girl, such tact, such masterly perfection of manner! It comes from | |
her heart. Happy the man who wins her! With her the least worldly of men | |
would occupy a most brilliant position in society. Don’t you think so? | |
I only wanted to know your opinion,” and Anna Pávlovna let Pierre go. | |
Pierre, in reply, sincerely agreed with her as to Hélène’s | |
perfection of manner. If he ever thought of Hélène, it was just of | |
her beauty and her remarkable skill in appearing silently dignified in | |
society. | |
The old aunt received the two young people in her corner, but seemed | |
desirous of hiding her adoration for Hélène and inclined rather | |
to show her fear of Anna Pávlovna. She looked at her niece, as if | |
inquiring what she was to do with these people. On leaving them, Anna | |
Pávlovna again touched Pierre’s sleeve, saying: “I hope you won’t | |
say that it is dull in my house again,” and she glanced at Hélène. | |
Hélène smiled, with a look implying that she did not admit the | |
possibility of anyone seeing her without being enchanted. The aunt | |
coughed, swallowed, and said in French that she was very pleased to see | |
Hélène, then she turned to Pierre with the same words of welcome | |
and the same look. In the middle of a dull and halting conversation, | |
Hélène turned to Pierre with the beautiful bright smile that she gave | |
to everyone. Pierre was so used to that smile, and it had so little | |
meaning for him, that he paid no attention to it. The aunt was just | |
speaking of a collection of snuffboxes that had belonged to Pierre’s | |
father, Count Bezúkhov, and showed them her own box. Princess Hélène | |
asked to see the portrait of the aunt’s husband on the box lid. | |
“That is probably the work of Vinesse,” said Pierre, mentioning | |
a celebrated miniaturist, and he leaned over the table to take the | |
snuffbox while trying to hear what was being said at the other table. | |
He half rose, meaning to go round, but the aunt handed him the snuffbox, | |
passing it across Hélène’s back. Hélène stooped forward to make | |
room, and looked round with a smile. She was, as always at evening | |
parties, wearing a dress such as was then fashionable, cut very low at | |
front and back. Her bust, which had always seemed like marble to Pierre, | |
was so close to him that his shortsighted eyes could not but perceive | |
the living charm of her neck and shoulders, so near to his lips that | |
he need only have bent his head a little to have touched them. He was | |
conscious of the warmth of her body, the scent of perfume, and the | |
creaking of her corset as she moved. He did not see her marble beauty | |
forming a complete whole with her dress, but all the charm of her body | |
only covered by her garments. And having once seen this he could not | |
help being aware of it, just as we cannot renew an illusion we have once | |
seen through. | |
“So you have never noticed before how beautiful I am?” Hélène | |
seemed to say. “You had not noticed that I am a woman? Yes, I am a | |
woman who may belong to anyone—to you too,” said her glance. And at | |
that moment Pierre felt that Hélène not only could, but must, be his | |
wife, and that it could not be otherwise. | |
He knew this at that moment as surely as if he had been standing at the | |
altar with her. How and when this would be he did not know, he did not | |
even know if it would be a good thing (he even felt, he knew not why, | |
that it would be a bad thing), but he knew it would happen. | |
Pierre dropped his eyes, lifted them again, and wished once more to see | |
her as a distant beauty far removed from him, as he had seen her every | |
day until then, but he could no longer do it. He could not, any more | |
than a man who has been looking at a tuft of steppe grass through the | |
mist and taking it for a tree can again take it for a tree after he has | |
once recognized it to be a tuft of grass. She was terribly close to him. | |
She already had power over him, and between them there was no longer any | |
barrier except the barrier of his own will. | |
“Well, I will leave you in your little corner,” came Anna | |
Pávlovna’s voice, “I see you are all right there.” | |
And Pierre, anxiously trying to remember whether he had done anything | |
reprehensible, looked round with a blush. It seemed to him that everyone | |
knew what had happened to him as he knew it himself. | |
A little later when he went up to the large circle, Anna Pávlovna said | |
to him: “I hear you are refitting your Petersburg house?” | |
This was true. The architect had told him that it was necessary, and | |
Pierre, without knowing why, was having his enormous Petersburg house | |
done up. | |
“That’s a good thing, but don’t move from Prince Vasíli’s. It | |
is good to have a friend like the prince,” she said, smiling at Prince | |
Vasíli. “I know something about that. Don’t I? And you are still so | |
young. You need advice. Don’t be angry with me for exercising an old | |
woman’s privilege.” | |
She paused, as women always do, expecting something after they have | |
mentioned their age. “If you marry it will be a different thing,” | |
she continued, uniting them both in one glance. Pierre did not look at | |
Hélène nor she at him. But she was just as terribly close to him. He | |
muttered something and colored. | |
When he got home he could not sleep for a long time for thinking of what | |
had happened. What had happened? Nothing. He had merely understood that | |
the woman he had known as a child, of whom when her beauty was mentioned | |
he had said absent-mindedly: “Yes, she’s good looking,” he had | |
understood that this woman might belong to him. | |
“But she’s stupid. I have myself said she is stupid,” he thought. | |
“There is something nasty, something wrong, in the feeling she excites | |
in me. I have been told that her brother Anatole was in love with her | |
and she with him, that there was quite a scandal and that that’s why | |
he was sent away. Hippolyte is her brother... Prince Vasíli is her | |
father... It’s bad....” he reflected, but while he was thinking this | |
(the reflection was still incomplete), he caught himself smiling and was | |
conscious that another line of thought had sprung up, and while thinking | |
of her worthlessness he was also dreaming of how she would be his | |
wife, how she would love him become quite different, and how all he had | |
thought and heard of her might be false. And he again saw her not as the | |
daughter of Prince Vasíli, but visualized her whole body only veiled | |
by its gray dress. “But no! Why did this thought never occur to me | |
before?” and again he told himself that it was impossible, that there | |
would be something unnatural, and as it seemed to him dishonorable, in | |
this marriage. He recalled her former words and looks and the words | |
and looks of those who had seen them together. He recalled Anna | |
Pávlovna’s words and looks when she spoke to him about his house, | |
recalled thousands of such hints from Prince Vasíli and others, and was | |
seized by terror lest he had already, in some way, bound himself to do | |
something that was evidently wrong and that he ought not to do. But at | |
the very time he was expressing this conviction to himself, in another | |
part of his mind her image rose in all its womanly beauty. | |
CHAPTER II | |
In November, 1805, Prince Vasíli had to go on a tour of inspection | |
in four different provinces. He had arranged this for himself so as to | |
visit his neglected estates at the same time and pick up his son Anatole | |
where his regiment was stationed, and take him to visit Prince Nicholas | |
Bolkónski in order to arrange a match for him with the daughter of that | |
rich old man. But before leaving home and undertaking these new affairs, | |
Prince Vasíli had to settle matters with Pierre, who, it is true, had | |
latterly spent whole days at home, that is, in Prince Vasíli’s house | |
where he was staying, and had been absurd, excited, and foolish in | |
Hélène’s presence (as a lover should be), but had not yet proposed | |
to her. | |
“This is all very fine, but things must be settled,” said Prince | |
Vasíli to himself, with a sorrowful sigh, one morning, feeling that | |
Pierre who was under such obligations to him (“But never mind that”) | |
was not behaving very well in this matter. “Youth, frivolity... well, | |
God be with him,” thought he, relishing his own goodness of heart, | |
“but it must be brought to a head. The day after tomorrow will be | |
Lëlya’s name day. I will invite two or three people, and if he does | |
not understand what he ought to do then it will be my affair—yes, my | |
affair. I am her father.” | |
Six weeks after Anna Pávlovna’s “At Home” and after the sleepless | |
night when he had decided that to marry Hélène would be a calamity and | |
that he ought to avoid her and go away, Pierre, despite that decision, | |
had not left Prince Vasíli’s and felt with terror that in people’s | |
eyes he was every day more and more connected with her, that it was | |
impossible for him to return to his former conception of her, that he | |
could not break away from her, and that though it would be a terrible | |
thing he would have to unite his fate with hers. He might perhaps have | |
been able to free himself but that Prince Vasíli (who had rarely before | |
given receptions) now hardly let a day go by without having an evening | |
party at which Pierre had to be present unless he wished to spoil | |
the general pleasure and disappoint everyone’s expectation. Prince | |
Vasíli, in the rare moments when he was at home, would take Pierre’s | |
hand in passing and draw it downwards, or absent-mindedly hold out his | |
wrinkled, clean-shaven cheek for Pierre to kiss and would say: “Till | |
tomorrow,” or, “Be in to dinner or I shall not see you,” or, “I | |
am staying in for your sake,” and so on. And though Prince Vasíli, | |
when he stayed in (as he said) for Pierre’s sake, hardly exchanged a | |
couple of words with him, Pierre felt unable to disappoint him. | |
Every day he said to himself one and the same thing: “It is time I | |
understood her and made up my mind what she really is. Was I mistaken | |
before, or am I mistaken now? No, she is not stupid, she is an excellent | |
girl,” he sometimes said to himself “she never makes a mistake, | |
never says anything stupid. She says little, but what she does say is | |
always clear and simple, so she is not stupid. She never was abashed and | |
is not abashed now, so she cannot be a bad woman!” He had often begun | |
to make reflections or think aloud in her company, and she had always | |
answered him either by a brief but appropriate remark—showing that it | |
did not interest her—or by a silent look and smile which more palpably | |
than anything else showed Pierre her superiority. She was right in | |
regarding all arguments as nonsense in comparison with that smile. | |
She always addressed him with a radiantly confiding smile meant for him | |
alone, in which there was something more significant than in the general | |
smile that usually brightened her face. Pierre knew that everyone was | |
waiting for him to say a word and cross a certain line, and he knew that | |
sooner or later he would step across it, but an incomprehensible terror | |
seized him at the thought of that dreadful step. A thousand times during | |
that month and a half while he felt himself drawn nearer and nearer to | |
that dreadful abyss, Pierre said to himself: “What am I doing? I need | |
resolution. Can it be that I have none?” | |
He wished to take a decision, but felt with dismay that in this matter | |
he lacked that strength of will which he had known in himself and really | |
possessed. Pierre was one of those who are only strong when they feel | |
themselves quite innocent, and since that day when he was overpowered | |
by a feeling of desire while stooping over the snuffbox at Anna | |
Pávlovna’s, an unacknowledged sense of the guilt of that desire | |
paralyzed his will. | |
On Hélène’s name day, a small party of just their own people—as | |
his wife said—met for supper at Prince Vasíli’s. All these friends | |
and relations had been given to understand that the fate of the young | |
girl would be decided that evening. The visitors were seated at supper. | |
Princess Kurágina, a portly imposing woman who had once been handsome, | |
was sitting at the head of the table. On either side of her sat the | |
more important guests—an old general and his wife, and Anna Pávlovna | |
Schérer. At the other end sat the younger and less important guests, | |
and there too sat the members of the family, and Pierre and Hélène, | |
side by side. Prince Vasíli was not having any supper: he went round | |
the table in a merry mood, sitting down now by one, now by another, of | |
the guests. To each of them he made some careless and agreeable remark | |
except to Pierre and Hélène, whose presence he seemed not to notice. | |
He enlivened the whole party. The wax candles burned brightly, the | |
silver and crystal gleamed, so did the ladies’ toilets and the gold | |
and silver of the men’s epaulets; servants in scarlet liveries moved | |
round the table, the clatter of plates, knives, and glasses mingled with | |
the animated hum of several conversations. At one end of the table, the | |
old chamberlain was heard assuring an old baroness that he loved her | |
passionately, at which she laughed; at the other could be heard the | |
story of the misfortunes of some Mary Víktorovna or other. At the | |
center of the table, Prince Vasíli attracted everybody’s attention. | |
With a facetious smile on his face, he was telling the ladies about last | |
Wednesday’s meeting of the Imperial Council, at which Sergéy Kuzmích | |
Vyazmítinov, the new military governor general of Petersburg, had | |
received and read the then famous rescript of the Emperor Alexander | |
from the army to Sergéy Kuzmích, in which the Emperor said that he was | |
receiving from all sides declarations of the people’s loyalty, that | |
the declaration from Petersburg gave him particular pleasure, and that | |
he was proud to be at the head of such a nation and would endeavor to be | |
worthy of it. This rescript began with the words: “Sergéy Kuzmích, | |
From all sides reports reach me,” etc. | |
“Well, and so he never got farther than: ‘Sergéy Kuzmích’?” | |
asked one of the ladies. | |
“Exactly, not a hair’s breadth farther,” answered Prince Vasíli, | |
laughing, “‘Sergéy Kuzmích... From all sides... From all sides... | |
Sergéy Kuzmích...’ Poor Vyazmítinov could not get any farther! | |
He began the rescript again and again, but as soon as he uttered | |
‘Sergéy’ he sobbed, ‘Kuz-mí-ch,’ tears, and ‘From all | |
sides’ was smothered in sobs and he could get no farther. And again | |
his handkerchief, and again: ‘Sergéy Kuzmích, From all sides,’... | |
and tears, till at last somebody else was asked to read it.” | |
“Kuzmích... From all sides... and then tears,” someone repeated | |
laughing. | |
“Don’t be unkind,” cried Anna Pávlovna from her end of the table | |
holding up a threatening finger. “He is such a worthy and excellent | |
man, our dear Vyazmítinov....” | |
Everybody laughed a great deal. At the head of the table, where the | |
honored guests sat, everyone seemed to be in high spirits and under the | |
influence of a variety of exciting sensations. Only Pierre and | |
Hélène sat silently side by side almost at the bottom of the table, a | |
suppressed smile brightening both their faces, a smile that had nothing | |
to do with Sergéy Kuzmích—a smile of bashfulness at their own | |
feelings. But much as all the rest laughed, talked, and joked, much | |
as they enjoyed their Rhine wine, sauté, and ices, and however they | |
avoided looking at the young couple, and heedless and unobservant as | |
they seemed of them, one could feel by the occasional glances they gave | |
that the story about Sergéy Kuzmích, the laughter, and the food | |
were all a pretense, and that the whole attention of that company was | |
directed to—Pierre and Hélène. Prince Vasíli mimicked the sobbing | |
of Sergéy Kuzmích and at the same time his eyes glanced toward his | |
daughter, and while he laughed the expression on his face clearly said: | |
“Yes... it’s getting on, it will all be settled today.” Anna | |
Pávlovna threatened him on behalf of “our dear Vyazmítinov,” and | |
in her eyes, which, for an instant, glanced at Pierre, Prince Vasíli | |
read a congratulation on his future son-in-law and on his daughter’s | |
happiness. The old princess sighed sadly as she offered some wine to the | |
old lady next to her and glanced angrily at her daughter, and her sigh | |
seemed to say: “Yes, there’s nothing left for you and me but to sip | |
sweet wine, my dear, now that the time has come for these young ones to | |
be thus boldly, provocatively happy.” “And what nonsense all this is | |
that I am saying!” thought a diplomatist, glancing at the happy faces | |
of the lovers. “That’s happiness!” | |
Into the insignificant, trifling, and artificial interests uniting that | |
society had entered the simple feeling of the attraction of a healthy | |
and handsome young man and woman for one another. And this human feeling | |
dominated everything else and soared above all their affected chatter. | |
Jests fell flat, news was not interesting, and the animation was | |
evidently forced. Not only the guests but even the footmen waiting at | |
table seemed to feel this, and they forgot their duties as they looked | |
at the beautiful Hélène with her radiant face and at the red, broad, | |
and happy though uneasy face of Pierre. It seemed as if the very light | |
of the candles was focused on those two happy faces alone. | |
Pierre felt that he was the center of it all, and this both pleased and | |
embarrassed him. He was like a man entirely absorbed in some occupation. | |
He did not see, hear, or understand anything clearly. Only now and | |
then detached ideas and impressions from the world of reality shot | |
unexpectedly through his mind. | |
“So it is all finished!” he thought. “And how has it all happened? | |
How quickly! Now I know that not because of her alone, nor of myself | |
alone, but because of everyone, it must inevitably come about. They are | |
all expecting it, they are so sure that it will happen that I cannot, I | |
cannot, disappoint them. But how will it be? I do not know, but it | |
will certainly happen!” thought Pierre, glancing at those dazzling | |
shoulders close to his eyes. | |
Or he would suddenly feel ashamed of he knew not what. He felt it | |
awkward to attract everyone’s attention and to be considered a | |
lucky man and, with his plain face, to be looked on as a sort of Paris | |
possessed of a Helen. “But no doubt it always is and must be so!” | |
he consoled himself. “And besides, what have I done to bring it about? | |
How did it begin? I traveled from Moscow with Prince Vasíli. Then there | |
was nothing. So why should I not stay at his house? Then I played cards | |
with her and picked up her reticule and drove out with her. How did it | |
begin, when did it all come about?” And here he was sitting by her | |
side as her betrothed, seeing, hearing, feeling her nearness, her | |
breathing, her movements, her beauty. Then it would suddenly seem to him | |
that it was not she but he was so unusually beautiful, and that that was | |
why they all looked so at him, and flattered by this general admiration | |
he would expand his chest, raise his head, and rejoice at his good | |
fortune. Suddenly he heard a familiar voice repeating something to him a | |
second time. But Pierre was so absorbed that he did not understand what | |
was said. | |
“I am asking you when you last heard from Bolkónski,” repeated | |
Prince Vasíli a third time. “How absent-minded you are, my dear | |
fellow.” | |
Prince Vasíli smiled, and Pierre noticed that everyone was smiling at | |
him and Hélène. “Well, what of it, if you all know it?” thought | |
Pierre. “What of it? It’s the truth!” and he himself smiled his | |
gentle childlike smile, and Hélène smiled too. | |
“When did you get the letter? Was it from Olmütz?” repeated | |
Prince Vasíli, who pretended to want to know this in order to settle a | |
dispute. | |
“How can one talk or think of such trifles?” thought Pierre. | |
“Yes, from Olmütz,” he answered, with a sigh. | |
After supper Pierre with his partner followed the others into the | |
drawing room. The guests began to disperse, some without taking leave | |
of Hélène. Some, as if unwilling to distract her from an important | |
occupation, came up to her for a moment and made haste to go away, | |
refusing to let her see them off. The diplomatist preserved a mournful | |
silence as he left the drawing room. He pictured the vanity of his | |
diplomatic career in comparison with Pierre’s happiness. The old | |
general grumbled at his wife when she asked how his leg was. “Oh, the | |
old fool,” he thought. “That Princess Hélène will be beautiful | |
still when she’s fifty.” | |
“I think I may congratulate you,” whispered Anna Pávlovna to the | |
old princess, kissing her soundly. “If I hadn’t this headache I’d | |
have stayed longer.” | |
The old princess did not reply, she was tormented by jealousy of her | |
daughter’s happiness. | |
While the guests were taking their leave Pierre remained for a long time | |
alone with Hélène in the little drawing room where they were sitting. | |
He had often before, during the last six weeks, remained alone with her, | |
but had never spoken to her of love. Now he felt that it was inevitable, | |
but he could not make up his mind to take the final step. He felt | |
ashamed; he felt that he was occupying someone else’s place here | |
beside Hélène. “This happiness is not for you,” some inner voice | |
whispered to him. “This happiness is for those who have not in them | |
what there is in you.” | |
But, as he had to say something, he began by asking her whether she was | |
satisfied with the party. She replied in her usual simple manner that | |
this name day of hers had been one of the pleasantest she had ever had. | |
Some of the nearest relatives had not yet left. They were sitting in | |
the large drawing room. Prince Vasíli came up to Pierre with languid | |
footsteps. Pierre rose and said it was getting late. Prince Vasíli gave | |
him a look of stern inquiry, as though what Pierre had just said was | |
so strange that one could not take it in. But then the expression of | |
severity changed, and he drew Pierre’s hand downwards, made him sit | |
down, and smiled affectionately. | |
“Well, Lëlya?” he asked, turning instantly to his daughter and | |
addressing her with the careless tone of habitual tenderness natural to | |
parents who have petted their children from babyhood, but which Prince | |
Vasíli had only acquired by imitating other parents. | |
And he again turned to Pierre. | |
“Sergéy Kuzmích—From all sides—” he said, unbuttoning the top | |
button of his waistcoat. | |
Pierre smiled, but his smile showed that he knew it was not the story | |
about Sergéy Kuzmích that interested Prince Vasíli just then, and | |
Prince Vasíli saw that Pierre knew this. He suddenly muttered | |
something and went away. It seemed to Pierre that even the prince was | |
disconcerted. The sight of the discomposure of that old man of the world | |
touched Pierre: he looked at Hélène and she too seemed disconcerted, | |
and her look seemed to say: “Well, it is your own fault.” | |
“The step must be taken but I cannot, I cannot!” thought Pierre, | |
and he again began speaking about indifferent matters, about Sergéy | |
Kuzmích, asking what the point of the story was as he had not heard it | |
properly. Hélène answered with a smile that she too had missed it. | |
When Prince Vasíli returned to the drawing room, the princess, his | |
wife, was talking in low tones to the elderly lady about Pierre. | |
“Of course, it is a very brilliant match, but happiness, my dear...” | |
“Marriages are made in heaven,” replied the elderly lady. | |
Prince Vasíli passed by, seeming not to hear the ladies, and sat down | |
on a sofa in a far corner of the room. He closed his eyes and seemed to | |
be dozing. His head sank forward and then he roused himself. | |
“Aline,” he said to his wife, “go and see what they are about.” | |
The princess went up to the door, passed by it with a dignified and | |
indifferent air, and glanced into the little drawing room. Pierre and | |
Hélène still sat talking just as before. | |
“Still the same,” she said to her husband. | |
Prince Vasíli frowned, twisting his mouth, his cheeks quivered and his | |
face assumed the coarse, unpleasant expression peculiar to him. Shaking | |
himself, he rose, threw back his head, and with resolute steps went | |
past the ladies into the little drawing room. With quick steps he went | |
joyfully up to Pierre. His face was so unusually triumphant that Pierre | |
rose in alarm on seeing it. | |
“Thank God!” said Prince Vasíli. “My wife has told me | |
everything!” (He put one arm around Pierre and the other around his | |
daughter.)—“My dear boy... Lëlya... I am very pleased.” (His | |
voice trembled.) “I loved your father... and she will make you a good | |
wife... God bless you!...” | |
He embraced his daughter, and then again Pierre, and kissed him with his | |
malodorous mouth. Tears actually moistened his cheeks. | |
“Princess, come here!” he shouted. | |
The old princess came in and also wept. The elderly lady was using | |
her handkerchief too. Pierre was kissed, and he kissed the beautiful | |
Hélène’s hand several times. After a while they were left alone | |
again. | |
“All this had to be and could not be otherwise,” thought Pierre, | |
“so it is useless to ask whether it is good or bad. It is good because | |
it’s definite and one is rid of the old tormenting doubt.” Pierre | |
held the hand of his betrothed in silence, looking at her beautiful | |
bosom as it rose and fell. | |
“Hélène!” he said aloud and paused. | |
“Something special is always said in such cases,” he thought, but | |
could not remember what it was that people say. He looked at her face. | |
She drew nearer to him. Her face flushed. | |
“Oh, take those off... those...” she said, pointing to his | |
spectacles. | |
Pierre took them off, and his eyes, besides the strange look eyes have | |
from which spectacles have just been removed, had also a frightened and | |
inquiring look. He was about to stoop over her hand and kiss it, but | |
with a rapid, almost brutal movement of her head, she intercepted his | |
lips and met them with her own. Her face struck Pierre, by its altered, | |
unpleasantly excited expression. | |
“It is too late now, it’s done; besides I love her,” thought | |
Pierre. | |
“Je vous aime!” * he said, remembering what has to be said at such | |
moments: but his words sounded so weak that he felt ashamed of himself. | |
* “I love you.” | |
Six weeks later he was married, and settled in Count Bezúkhov’s | |
large, newly furnished Petersburg house, the happy possessor, as people | |
said, of a wife who was a celebrated beauty and of millions of money. | |
CHAPTER III | |
Old Prince Nicholas Bolkónski received a letter from Prince Vasíli | |
in November, 1805, announcing that he and his son would be paying him | |
a visit. “I am starting on a journey of inspection, and of course I | |
shall think nothing of an extra seventy miles to come and see you at | |
the same time, my honored benefactor,” wrote Prince Vasíli. “My son | |
Anatole is accompanying me on his way to the army, so I hope you will | |
allow him personally to express the deep respect that, emulating his | |
father, he feels for you.” | |
“It seems that there will be no need to bring Mary out, suitors are | |
coming to us of their own accord,” incautiously remarked the little | |
princess on hearing the news. | |
Prince Nicholas frowned, but said nothing. | |
A fortnight after the letter Prince Vasíli’s servants came one | |
evening in advance of him, and he and his son arrived next day. | |
Old Bolkónski had always had a poor opinion of Prince Vasíli’s | |
character, but more so recently, since in the new reigns of Paul and | |
Alexander Prince Vasíli had risen to high position and honors. And now, | |
from the hints contained in his letter and given by the little princess, | |
he saw which way the wind was blowing, and his low opinion changed into | |
a feeling of contemptuous ill will. He snorted whenever he mentioned | |
him. On the day of Prince Vasíli’s arrival, Prince Bolkónski was | |
particularly discontented and out of temper. Whether he was in a bad | |
temper because Prince Vasíli was coming, or whether his being in a bad | |
temper made him specially annoyed at Prince Vasíli’s visit, he was | |
in a bad temper, and in the morning Tíkhon had already advised the | |
architect not to go to the prince with his report. | |
“Do you hear how he’s walking?” said Tíkhon, drawing the | |
architect’s attention to the sound of the prince’s footsteps. | |
“Stepping flat on his heels—we know what that means....” | |
However, at nine o’clock the prince, in his velvet coat with a sable | |
collar and cap, went out for his usual walk. It had snowed the day | |
before and the path to the hothouse, along which the prince was in the | |
habit of walking, had been swept: the marks of the broom were still | |
visible in the snow and a shovel had been left sticking in one of the | |
soft snowbanks that bordered both sides of the path. The prince went | |
through the conservatories, the serfs’ quarters, and the outbuildings, | |
frowning and silent. | |
“Can a sleigh pass?” he asked his overseer, a venerable man, | |
resembling his master in manners and looks, who was accompanying him | |
back to the house. | |
“The snow is deep. I am having the avenue swept, your honor.” | |
The prince bowed his head and went up to the porch. “God be | |
thanked,” thought the overseer, “the storm has blown over!” | |
“It would have been hard to drive up, your honor,” he added. “I | |
heard, your honor, that a minister is coming to visit your honor.” | |
The prince turned round to the overseer and fixed his eyes on him, | |
frowning. | |
“What? A minister? What minister? Who gave orders?” he said in | |
his shrill, harsh voice. “The road is not swept for the princess my | |
daughter, but for a minister! For me, there are no ministers!” | |
“Your honor, I thought...” | |
“You thought!” shouted the prince, his words coming more and more | |
rapidly and indistinctly. “You thought!... Rascals! Blackguards!... | |
I’ll teach you to think!” and lifting his stick he swung it and | |
would have hit Alpátych, the overseer, had not the latter instinctively | |
avoided the blow. “Thought... Blackguards...” shouted the prince | |
rapidly. | |
But although Alpátych, frightened at his own temerity in avoiding the | |
stroke, came up to the prince, bowing his bald head resignedly before | |
him, or perhaps for that very reason, the prince, though he continued | |
to shout: “Blackguards!... Throw the snow back on the road!” did not | |
lift his stick again but hurried into the house. | |
Before dinner, Princess Mary and Mademoiselle Bourienne, who knew | |
that the prince was in a bad humor, stood awaiting him; Mademoiselle | |
Bourienne with a radiant face that said: “I know nothing, I am the | |
same as usual,” and Princess Mary pale, frightened, and with downcast | |
eyes. What she found hardest to bear was to know that on such occasions | |
she ought to behave like Mademoiselle Bourienne, but could not. | |
She thought: “If I seem not to notice he will think that I do not | |
sympathize with him; if I seem sad and out of spirits myself, he will | |
say (as he has done before) that I’m in the dumps.” | |
The prince looked at his daughter’s frightened face and snorted. | |
“Fool... or dummy!” he muttered. | |
“And the other one is not here. They’ve been telling tales,” he | |
thought—referring to the little princess who was not in the dining | |
room. | |
“Where is the princess?” he asked. “Hiding?” | |
“She is not very well,” answered Mademoiselle Bourienne with | |
a bright smile, “so she won’t come down. It is natural in her | |
state.” | |
“Hm! Hm!” muttered the prince, sitting down. | |
His plate seemed to him not quite clean, and pointing to a spot he | |
flung it away. Tíkhon caught it and handed it to a footman. The little | |
princess was not unwell, but had such an overpowering fear of the prince | |
that, hearing he was in a bad humor, she had decided not to appear. | |
“I am afraid for the baby,” she said to Mademoiselle Bourienne: | |
“Heaven knows what a fright might do.” | |
In general at Bald Hills the little princess lived in constant fear, and | |
with a sense of antipathy to the old prince which she did not | |
realize because the fear was so much the stronger feeling. The prince | |
reciprocated this antipathy, but it was overpowered by his contempt | |
for her. When the little princess had grown accustomed to life at Bald | |
Hills, she took a special fancy to Mademoiselle Bourienne, spent whole | |
days with her, asked her to sleep in her room, and often talked with her | |
about the old prince and criticized him. | |
“So we are to have visitors, mon prince?” remarked Mademoiselle | |
Bourienne, unfolding her white napkin with her rosy fingers. “His | |
Excellency Prince Vasíli Kurágin and his son, I understand?” she | |
said inquiringly. | |
“Hm!—his excellency is a puppy.... I got him his appointment in the | |
service,” said the prince disdainfully. “Why his son is coming I | |
don’t understand. Perhaps Princess Elizabeth and Princess Mary know. | |
I don’t want him.” (He looked at his blushing daughter.) “Are you | |
unwell today? Eh? Afraid of the ‘minister’ as that idiot Alpátych | |
called him this morning?” | |
“No, mon père.” | |
Though Mademoiselle Bourienne had been so unsuccessful in her choice | |
of a subject, she did not stop talking, but chattered about the | |
conservatories and the beauty of a flower that had just opened, and | |
after the soup the prince became more genial. | |
After dinner, he went to see his daughter-in-law. The little princess | |
was sitting at a small table, chattering with Másha, her maid. She grew | |
pale on seeing her father-in-law. | |
She was much altered. She was now plain rather than pretty. Her cheeks | |
had sunk, her lip was drawn up, and her eyes drawn down. | |
“Yes, I feel a kind of oppression,” she said in reply to the | |
prince’s question as to how she felt. | |
“Do you want anything?” | |
“No, merci, mon père.” | |
“Well, all right, all right.” | |
He left the room and went to the waiting room where Alpátych stood with | |
bowed head. | |
“Has the snow been shoveled back?” | |
“Yes, your excellency. Forgive me for heaven’s sake... It was only | |
my stupidity.” | |
“All right, all right,” interrupted the prince, and laughing his | |
unnatural way, he stretched out his hand for Alpátych to kiss, and then | |
proceeded to his study. | |
Prince Vasíli arrived that evening. He was met in the avenue by | |
coachmen and footmen, who, with loud shouts, dragged his sleighs up to | |
one of the lodges over the road purposely laden with snow. | |
Prince Vasíli and Anatole had separate rooms assigned to them. | |
Anatole, having taken off his overcoat, sat with arms akimbo before a | |
table on a corner of which he smilingly and absent-mindedly fixed his | |
large and handsome eyes. He regarded his whole life as a continual round | |
of amusement which someone for some reason had to provide for him. | |
And he looked on this visit to a churlish old man and a rich and ugly | |
heiress in the same way. All this might, he thought, turn out very well | |
and amusingly. “And why not marry her if she really has so much money? | |
That never does any harm,” thought Anatole. | |
He shaved and scented himself with the care and elegance which had | |
become habitual to him and, his handsome head held high, entered his | |
father’s room with the good-humored and victorious air natural to | |
him. Prince Vasíli’s two valets were busy dressing him, and he looked | |
round with much animation and cheerfully nodded to his son as the latter | |
entered, as if to say: “Yes, that’s how I want you to look.” | |
“I say, Father, joking apart, is she very hideous?” Anatole asked, | |
as if continuing a conversation the subject of which had often been | |
mentioned during the journey. | |
“Enough! What nonsense! Above all, try to be respectful and cautious | |
with the old prince.” | |
“If he starts a row I’ll go away,” said Prince Anatole. “I | |
can’t bear those old men! Eh?” | |
“Remember, for you everything depends on this.” | |
In the meantime, not only was it known in the maidservants’ rooms that | |
the minister and his son had arrived, but the appearance of both had | |
been minutely described. Princess Mary was sitting alone in her room, | |
vainly trying to master her agitation. | |
“Why did they write, why did Lise tell me about it? It can never | |
happen!” she said, looking at herself in the glass. “How shall I | |
enter the drawing room? Even if I like him I can’t now be myself with | |
him.” The mere thought of her father’s look filled her with terror. | |
The little princess and Mademoiselle Bourienne had already received | |
from Másha, the lady’s maid, the necessary report of how handsome the | |
minister’s son was, with his rosy cheeks and dark eyebrows, and with | |
what difficulty the father had dragged his legs upstairs while the son | |
had followed him like an eagle, three steps at a time. Having received | |
this information, the little princess and Mademoiselle Bourienne, whose | |
chattering voices had reached her from the corridor, went into Princess | |
Mary’s room. | |
“You know they’ve come, Marie?” said the little princess, waddling | |
in, and sinking heavily into an armchair. | |
She was no longer in the loose gown she generally wore in the morning, | |
but had on one of her best dresses. Her hair was carefully done and her | |
face was animated, which, however, did not conceal its sunken and faded | |
outlines. Dressed as she used to be in Petersburg society, it was still | |
more noticeable how much plainer she had become. Some unobtrusive touch | |
had been added to Mademoiselle Bourienne’s toilet which rendered her | |
fresh and pretty face yet more attractive. | |
“What! Are you going to remain as you are, dear princess?” she | |
began. “They’ll be announcing that the gentlemen are in the drawing | |
room and we shall have to go down, and you have not smartened yourself | |
up at all!” | |
The little princess got up, rang for the maid, and hurriedly and merrily | |
began to devise and carry out a plan of how Princess Mary should be | |
dressed. Princess Mary’s self-esteem was wounded by the fact that | |
the arrival of a suitor agitated her, and still more so by both | |
her companions’ not having the least conception that it could be | |
otherwise. To tell them that she felt ashamed for herself and for them | |
would be to betray her agitation, while to decline their offers to | |
dress her would prolong their banter and insistence. She flushed, her | |
beautiful eyes grew dim, red blotches came on her face, and it took | |
on the unattractive martyrlike expression it so often wore, as she | |
submitted herself to Mademoiselle Bourienne and Lise. Both these women | |
quite sincerely tried to make her look pretty. She was so plain that | |
neither of them could think of her as a rival, so they began dressing | |
her with perfect sincerity, and with the naïve and firm conviction | |
women have that dress can make a face pretty. | |
“No really, my dear, this dress is not pretty,” said Lise, looking | |
sideways at Princess Mary from a little distance. “You have a maroon | |
dress, have it fetched. Really! You know the fate of your whole life may | |
be at stake. But this one is too light, it’s not becoming!” | |
It was not the dress, but the face and whole figure of Princess Mary | |
that was not pretty, but neither Mademoiselle Bourienne nor the little | |
princess felt this; they still thought that if a blue ribbon were placed | |
in the hair, the hair combed up, and the blue scarf arranged lower on | |
the best maroon dress, and so on, all would be well. They forgot that | |
the frightened face and the figure could not be altered, and that | |
however they might change the setting and adornment of that face, it | |
would still remain piteous and plain. After two or three changes to | |
which Princess Mary meekly submitted, just as her hair had been arranged | |
on the top of her head (a style that quite altered and spoiled her | |
looks) and she had put on a maroon dress with a pale-blue scarf, the | |
little princess walked twice round her, now adjusting a fold of the | |
dress with her little hand, now arranging the scarf and looking at her | |
with her head bent first on one side and then on the other. | |
“No, it will not do,” she said decidedly, clasping her hands. “No, | |
Mary, really this dress does not suit you. I prefer you in your little | |
gray everyday dress. Now please, do it for my sake. Katie,” she said | |
to the maid, “bring the princess her gray dress, and you’ll see, | |
Mademoiselle Bourienne, how I shall arrange it,” she added, smiling | |
with a foretaste of artistic pleasure. | |
But when Katie brought the required dress, Princess Mary remained | |
sitting motionless before the glass, looking at her face, and saw in the | |
mirror her eyes full of tears and her mouth quivering, ready to burst | |
into sobs. | |
“Come, dear princess,” said Mademoiselle Bourienne, “just one more | |
little effort.” | |
The little princess, taking the dress from the maid, came up to Princess | |
Mary. | |
“Well, now we’ll arrange something quite simple and becoming,” she | |
said. | |
The three voices, hers, Mademoiselle Bourienne’s, and Katie’s, who | |
was laughing at something, mingled in a merry sound, like the chirping | |
of birds. | |
“No, leave me alone,” said Princess Mary. | |
Her voice sounded so serious and so sad that the chirping of the birds | |
was silenced at once. They looked at the beautiful, large, thoughtful | |
eyes full of tears and of thoughts, gazing shiningly and imploringly at | |
them, and understood that it was useless and even cruel to insist. | |
“At least, change your coiffure,” said the little princess. | |
“Didn’t I tell you,” she went on, turning reproachfully to | |
Mademoiselle Bourienne, “Mary’s is a face which such a coiffure does | |
not suit in the least. Not in the least! Please change it.” | |
“Leave me alone, please leave me alone! It is all quite the same to | |
me,” answered a voice struggling with tears. | |
Mademoiselle Bourienne and the little princess had to own to themselves | |
that Princess Mary in this guise looked very plain, worse than usual, | |
but it was too late. She was looking at them with an expression they | |
both knew, an expression thoughtful and sad. This expression in Princess | |
Mary did not frighten them (she never inspired fear in anyone), but they | |
knew that when it appeared on her face, she became mute and was not to | |
be shaken in her determination. | |
“You will change it, won’t you?” said Lise. And as Princess Mary | |
gave no answer, she left the room. | |
Princess Mary was left alone. She did not comply with Lise’s request, | |
she not only left her hair as it was, but did not even look in her | |
glass. Letting her arms fall helplessly, she sat with downcast eyes and | |
pondered. A husband, a man, a strong dominant and strangely attractive | |
being rose in her imagination, and carried her into a totally different | |
happy world of his own. She fancied a child, her own—such as she had | |
seen the day before in the arms of her nurse’s daughter—at her | |
own breast, the husband standing by and gazing tenderly at her and the | |
child. “But no, it is impossible, I am too ugly,” she thought. | |
“Please come to tea. The prince will be out in a moment,” came the | |
maid’s voice at the door. | |
She roused herself, and felt appalled at what she had been thinking, and | |
before going down she went into the room where the icons hung and, her | |
eyes fixed on the dark face of a large icon of the Saviour lit by a | |
lamp, she stood before it with folded hands for a few moments. A painful | |
doubt filled her soul. Could the joy of love, of earthly love for a | |
man, be for her? In her thoughts of marriage Princess Mary dreamed of | |
happiness and of children, but her strongest, most deeply hidden longing | |
was for earthly love. The more she tried to hide this feeling from | |
others and even from herself, the stronger it grew. “O God,” she | |
said, “how am I to stifle in my heart these temptations of the devil? | |
How am I to renounce forever these vile fancies, so as peacefully to | |
fulfill Thy will?” And scarcely had she put that question than God | |
gave her the answer in her own heart. “Desire nothing for thyself, | |
seek nothing, be not anxious or envious. Man’s future and thy own fate | |
must remain hidden from thee, but live so that thou mayest be ready for | |
anything. If it be God’s will to prove thee in the duties of marriage, | |
be ready to fulfill His will.” With this consoling thought (but | |
yet with a hope for the fulfillment of her forbidden earthly longing) | |
Princess Mary sighed, and having crossed herself went down, thinking | |
neither of her gown and coiffure nor of how she would go in nor of what | |
she would say. What could all that matter in comparison with the will of | |
God, without Whose care not a hair of man’s head can fall? | |
CHAPTER IV | |
When Princess Mary came down, Prince Vasíli and his son were already | |
in the drawing room, talking to the little princess and Mademoiselle | |
Bourienne. When she entered with her heavy step, treading on her heels, | |
the gentlemen and Mademoiselle Bourienne rose and the little princess, | |
indicating her to the gentlemen, said: “Voilà Marie!” Princess Mary | |
saw them all and saw them in detail. She saw Prince Vasíli’s face, | |
serious for an instant at the sight of her, but immediately smiling | |
again, and the little princess curiously noting the impression | |
“Marie” produced on the visitors. And she saw Mademoiselle | |
Bourienne, with her ribbon and pretty face, and her unusually animated | |
look which was fixed on him, but him she could not see, she only saw | |
something large, brilliant, and handsome moving toward her as she | |
entered the room. Prince Vasíli approached first, and she kissed the | |
bold forehead that bent over her hand and answered his question by | |
saying that, on the contrary, she remembered him quite well. Then | |
Anatole came up to her. She still could not see him. She only felt a | |
soft hand taking hers firmly, and she touched with her lips a white | |
forehead, over which was beautiful light-brown hair smelling of pomade. | |
When she looked up at him she was struck by his beauty. Anatole stood | |
with his right thumb under a button of his uniform, his chest expanded | |
and his back drawn in, slightly swinging one foot, and, with his head a | |
little bent, looked with beaming face at the princess without | |
speaking and evidently not thinking about her at all. Anatole was not | |
quick-witted, nor ready or eloquent in conversation, but he had the | |
faculty, so invaluable in society, of composure and imperturbable | |
self-possession. If a man lacking in self-confidence remains dumb on | |
a first introduction and betrays a consciousness of the impropriety of | |
such silence and an anxiety to find something to say, the effect is | |
bad. But Anatole was dumb, swung his foot, and smilingly examined the | |
princess’ hair. It was evident that he could be silent in this way for | |
a very long time. “If anyone finds this silence inconvenient, let him | |
talk, but I don’t want to,” he seemed to say. Besides this, in his | |
behavior to women Anatole had a manner which particularly inspires in | |
them curiosity, awe, and even love—a supercilious consciousness of | |
his own superiority. It was as if he said to them: “I know you, I know | |
you, but why should I bother about you? You’d be only too glad, of | |
course.” Perhaps he did not really think this when he met women—even | |
probably he did not, for in general he thought very little—but his | |
looks and manner gave that impression. The princess felt this, and as if | |
wishing to show him that she did not even dare expect to interest him, | |
she turned to his father. The conversation was general and animated, | |
thanks to Princess Lise’s voice and little downy lip that lifted over | |
her white teeth. She met Prince Vasíli with that playful manner often | |
employed by lively chatty people, and consisting in the assumption | |
that between the person they so address and themselves there are some | |
semi-private, long-established jokes and amusing reminiscences, though | |
no such reminiscences really exist—just as none existed in this case. | |
Prince Vasíli readily adopted her tone and the little princess also | |
drew Anatole, whom she hardly knew, into these amusing recollections of | |
things that had never occurred. Mademoiselle Bourienne also shared them | |
and even Princess Mary felt herself pleasantly made to share in these | |
merry reminiscences. | |
“Here at least we shall have the benefit of your company all to | |
ourselves, dear prince,” said the little princess (of course, in | |
French) to Prince Vasíli. “It’s not as at Annette’s * receptions | |
where you always ran away; you remember cette chère Annette!” | |
* Anna Pávlovna. | |
“Ah, but you won’t talk politics to me like Annette!” | |
“And our little tea table?” | |
“Oh, yes!” | |
“Why is it you were never at Annette’s?” the little princess asked | |
Anatole. “Ah, I know, I know,” she said with a sly glance, “your | |
brother Hippolyte told me about your goings on. Oh!” and she shook her | |
finger at him, “I have even heard of your doings in Paris!” | |
“And didn’t Hippolyte tell you?” asked Prince Vasíli, turning to | |
his son and seizing the little princess’ arm as if she would have run | |
away and he had just managed to catch her, “didn’t he tell you how | |
he himself was pining for the dear princess, and how she showed him the | |
door? Oh, she is a pearl among women, Princess,” he added, turning to | |
Princess Mary. | |
When Paris was mentioned, Mademoiselle Bourienne for her part seized the | |
opportunity of joining in the general current of recollections. | |
She took the liberty of inquiring whether it was long since Anatole | |
had left Paris and how he had liked that city. Anatole answered the | |
Frenchwoman very readily and, looking at her with a smile, talked to her | |
about her native land. When he saw the pretty little Bourienne, Anatole | |
came to the conclusion that he would not find Bald Hills dull either. | |
“Not at all bad!” he thought, examining her, “not at all bad, that | |
little companion! I hope she will bring her along with her when we’re | |
married, la petite est gentille.” * | |
* The little one is charming. | |
The old prince dressed leisurely in his study, frowning and considering | |
what he was to do. The coming of these visitors annoyed him. “What are | |
Prince Vasíli and that son of his to me? Prince Vasíli is a shallow | |
braggart and his son, no doubt, is a fine specimen,” he grumbled to | |
himself. What angered him was that the coming of these visitors revived | |
in his mind an unsettled question he always tried to stifle, one about | |
which he always deceived himself. The question was whether he could ever | |
bring himself to part from his daughter and give her to a husband. The | |
prince never directly asked himself that question, knowing beforehand | |
that he would have to answer it justly, and justice clashed not only | |
with his feelings but with the very possibility of life. Life without | |
Princess Mary, little as he seemed to value her, was unthinkable to | |
him. “And why should she marry?” he thought. “To be unhappy for | |
certain. There’s Lise, married to Andrew—a better husband one would | |
think could hardly be found nowadays—but is she contented with her | |
lot? And who would marry Marie for love? Plain and awkward! They’ll | |
take her for her connections and wealth. Are there no women living | |
unmarried, and even the happier for it?” So thought Prince Bolkónski | |
while dressing, and yet the question he was always putting off demanded | |
an immediate answer. Prince Vasíli had brought his son with the evident | |
intention of proposing, and today or tomorrow he would probably ask | |
for an answer. His birth and position in society were not bad. “Well, | |
I’ve nothing against it,” the prince said to himself, “but he must | |
be worthy of her. And that is what we shall see.” | |
“That is what we shall see! That is what we shall see!” he added | |
aloud. | |
He entered the drawing room with his usual alert step, glancing rapidly | |
round the company. He noticed the change in the little princess’ | |
dress, Mademoiselle Bourienne’s ribbon, Princess Mary’s unbecoming | |
coiffure, Mademoiselle Bourienne’s and Anatole’s smiles, and the | |
loneliness of his daughter amid the general conversation. “Got herself | |
up like a fool!” he thought, looking irritably at her. “She is | |
shameless, and he ignores her!” | |
He went straight up to Prince Vasíli. | |
“Well! How d’ye do? How d’ye do? Glad to see you!” | |
“Friendship laughs at distance,” began Prince Vasíli in his usual | |
rapid, self-confident, familiar tone. “Here is my second son; please | |
love and befriend him.” | |
Prince Bolkónski surveyed Anatole. | |
“Fine young fellow! Fine young fellow!” he said. “Well, come and | |
kiss me,” and he offered his cheek. | |
Anatole kissed the old man, and looked at him with curiosity and perfect | |
composure, waiting for a display of the eccentricities his father had | |
told him to expect. | |
Prince Bolkónski sat down in his usual place in the corner of the sofa | |
and, drawing up an armchair for Prince Vasíli, pointed to it and began | |
questioning him about political affairs and news. He seemed to listen | |
attentively to what Prince Vasíli said, but kept glancing at Princess | |
Mary. | |
“And so they are writing from Potsdam already?” he said, repeating | |
Prince Vasíli’s last words. Then rising, he suddenly went up to his | |
daughter. | |
“Is it for visitors you’ve got yourself up like that, eh?” said | |
he. “Fine, very fine! You have done up your hair in this new way for | |
the visitors, and before the visitors I tell you that in future you are | |
never to dare to change your way of dress without my consent.” | |
“It was my fault, mon père,” interceded the little princess, with a | |
blush. | |
“You must do as you please,” said Prince Bolkónski, bowing to his | |
daughter-in-law, “but she need not make a fool of herself, she’s | |
plain enough as it is.” | |
And he sat down again, paying no more attention to his daughter, who was | |
reduced to tears. | |
“On the contrary, that coiffure suits the princess very well,” said | |
Prince Vasíli. | |
“Now you, young prince, what’s your name?” said Prince Bolkónski, | |
turning to Anatole, “come here, let us talk and get acquainted.” | |
“Now the fun begins,” thought Anatole, sitting down with a smile | |
beside the old prince. | |
“Well, my dear boy, I hear you’ve been educated abroad, not taught | |
to read and write by the deacon, like your father and me. Now tell me, | |
my dear boy, are you serving in the Horse Guards?” asked the old man, | |
scrutinizing Anatole closely and intently. | |
“No, I have been transferred to the line,” said Anatole, hardly able | |
to restrain his laughter. | |
“Ah! That’s a good thing. So, my dear boy, you wish to serve the | |
Tsar and the country? It is wartime. Such a fine fellow must serve. | |
Well, are you off to the front?” | |
“No, Prince, our regiment has gone to the front, but I am attached... | |
what is it I am attached to, Papa?” said Anatole, turning to his | |
father with a laugh. | |
“A splendid soldier, splendid! ‘What am I attached to!’ Ha, ha, | |
ha!” laughed Prince Bolkónski, and Anatole laughed still louder. | |
Suddenly Prince Bolkónski frowned. | |
“You may go,” he said to Anatole. | |
Anatole returned smiling to the ladies. | |
“And so you’ve had him educated abroad, Prince Vasíli, haven’t | |
you?” said the old prince to Prince Vasíli. | |
“I have done my best for him, and I can assure you the education there | |
is much better than ours.” | |
“Yes, everything is different nowadays, everything is changed. The | |
lad’s a fine fellow, a fine fellow! Well, come with me now.” He took | |
Prince Vasíli’s arm and led him to his study. As soon as they were | |
alone together, Prince Vasíli announced his hopes and wishes to the old | |
prince. | |
“Well, do you think I shall prevent her, that I can’t part from | |
her?” said the old prince angrily. “What an idea! I’m ready for it | |
tomorrow! Only let me tell you, I want to know my son-in-law better. You | |
know my principles—everything aboveboard! I will ask her tomorrow in | |
your presence; if she is willing, then he can stay on. He can stay and | |
I’ll see.” The old prince snorted. “Let her marry, it’s all the | |
same to me!” he screamed in the same piercing tone as when parting | |
from his son. | |
“I will tell you frankly,” said Prince Vasíli in the tone of | |
a crafty man convinced of the futility of being cunning with so | |
keen-sighted a companion. “You know, you see right through people. | |
Anatole is no genius, but he is an honest, goodhearted lad; an excellent | |
son or kinsman.” | |
“All right, all right, we’ll see!” | |
As always happens when women lead lonely lives for any length of time | |
without male society, on Anatole’s appearance all the three women of | |
Prince Bolkónski’s household felt that their life had not been real | |
till then. Their powers of reasoning, feeling, and observing immediately | |
increased tenfold, and their life, which seemed to have been passed in | |
darkness, was suddenly lit up by a new brightness, full of significance. | |
Princess Mary grew quite unconscious of her face and coiffure. The | |
handsome open face of the man who might perhaps be her husband absorbed | |
all her attention. He seemed to her kind, brave, determined, manly, and | |
magnanimous. She felt convinced of that. Thousands of dreams of a future | |
family life continually rose in her imagination. She drove them away and | |
tried to conceal them. | |
“But am I not too cold with him?” thought the princess. “I try | |
to be reserved because in the depth of my soul I feel too near to him | |
already, but then he cannot know what I think of him and may imagine | |
that I do not like him.” | |
And Princess Mary tried, but could not manage, to be cordial to her new | |
guest. “Poor girl, she’s devilish ugly!” thought Anatole. | |
Mademoiselle Bourienne, also roused to great excitement by Anatole’s | |
arrival, thought in another way. Of course, she, a handsome young woman | |
without any definite position, without relations or even a country, did | |
not intend to devote her life to serving Prince Bolkónski, to reading | |
aloud to him and being friends with Princess Mary. Mademoiselle | |
Bourienne had long been waiting for a Russian prince who, able to | |
appreciate at a glance her superiority to the plain, badly dressed, | |
ungainly Russian princesses, would fall in love with her and carry her | |
off; and here at last was a Russian prince. Mademoiselle Bourienne knew | |
a story, heard from her aunt but finished in her own way, which she | |
liked to repeat to herself. It was the story of a girl who had been | |
seduced, and to whom her poor mother (sa pauvre mère) appeared, and | |
reproached her for yielding to a man without being married. Mademoiselle | |
Bourienne was often touched to tears as in imagination she told this | |
story to him, her seducer. And now he, a real Russian prince, had | |
appeared. He would carry her away and then sa pauvre mère would appear | |
and he would marry her. So her future shaped itself in Mademoiselle | |
Bourienne’s head at the very time she was talking to Anatole about | |
Paris. It was not calculation that guided her (she did not even for a | |
moment consider what she should do), but all this had long been familiar | |
to her, and now that Anatole had appeared it just grouped itself around | |
him and she wished and tried to please him as much as possible. | |
The little princess, like an old war horse that hears the trumpet, | |
unconsciously and quite forgetting her condition, prepared for the | |
familiar gallop of coquetry, without any ulterior motive or any | |
struggle, but with naïve and lighthearted gaiety. | |
Although in female society Anatole usually assumed the role of a man | |
tired of being run after by women, his vanity was flattered by the | |
spectacle of his power over these three women. Besides that, he was | |
beginning to feel for the pretty and provocative Mademoiselle Bourienne | |
that passionate animal feeling which was apt to master him with great | |
suddenness and prompt him to the coarsest and most reckless actions. | |
After tea, the company went into the sitting room and Princess Mary was | |
asked to play on the clavichord. Anatole, laughing and in high spirits, | |
came and leaned on his elbows, facing her and beside Mademoiselle | |
Bourienne. Princess Mary felt his look with a painfully joyous emotion. | |
Her favorite sonata bore her into a most intimately poetic world and | |
the look she felt upon her made that world still more poetic. But | |
Anatole’s expression, though his eyes were fixed on her, referred not | |
to her but to the movements of Mademoiselle Bourienne’s little | |
foot, which he was then touching with his own under the clavichord. | |
Mademoiselle Bourienne was also looking at Princess Mary, and in her | |
lovely eyes there was a look of fearful joy and hope that was also new | |
to the princess. | |
“How she loves me!” thought Princess Mary. “How happy I am now, | |
and how happy I may be with such a friend and such a husband! Husband? | |
Can it be possible?” she thought, not daring to look at his face, but | |
still feeling his eyes gazing at her. | |
In the evening, after supper, when all were about to retire, Anatole | |
kissed Princess Mary’s hand. She did not know how she found the | |
courage, but she looked straight into his handsome face as it came near | |
to her shortsighted eyes. Turning from Princess Mary he went up and | |
kissed Mademoiselle Bourienne’s hand. (This was not etiquette, but | |
then he did everything so simply and with such assurance!) Mademoiselle | |
Bourienne flushed, and gave the princess a frightened look. | |
“What delicacy!” thought the princess. “Is it possible that | |
Amélie” (Mademoiselle Bourienne) “thinks I could be jealous of her, | |
and not value her pure affection and devotion to me?” She went up | |
to her and kissed her warmly. Anatole went up to kiss the little | |
princess’ hand. | |
“No! No! No! When your father writes to tell me that you are behaving | |
well I will give you my hand to kiss. Not till then!” she said. And | |
smilingly raising a finger at him, she left the room. | |
CHAPTER V | |
They all separated, but, except Anatole who fell asleep as soon as he | |
got into bed, all kept awake a long time that night. | |
“Is he really to be my husband, this stranger who is so kind—yes, | |
kind, that is the chief thing,” thought Princess Mary; and fear, which | |
she had seldom experienced, came upon her. She feared to look round, it | |
seemed to her that someone was there standing behind the screen in the | |
dark corner. And this someone was he—the devil—and he was also this | |
man with the white forehead, black eyebrows, and red lips. | |
She rang for her maid and asked her to sleep in her room. | |
Mademoiselle Bourienne walked up and down the conservatory for a long | |
time that evening, vainly expecting someone, now smiling at someone, now | |
working herself up to tears with the imaginary words of her pauvre mère | |
rebuking her for her fall. | |
The little princess grumbled to her maid that her bed was badly made. | |
She could not lie either on her face or on her side. Every position was | |
awkward and uncomfortable, and her burden oppressed her now more than | |
ever because Anatole’s presence had vividly recalled to her the time | |
when she was not like that and when everything was light and gay. She | |
sat in an armchair in her dressing jacket and nightcap and Katie, sleepy | |
and disheveled, beat and turned the heavy feather bed for the third | |
time, muttering to herself. | |
“I told you it was all lumps and holes!” the little princess | |
repeated. “I should be glad enough to fall asleep, so it’s not my | |
fault!” and her voice quivered like that of a child about to cry. | |
The old prince did not sleep either. Tíkhon, half asleep, heard him | |
pacing angrily about and snorting. The old prince felt as though he | |
had been insulted through his daughter. The insult was the more pointed | |
because it concerned not himself but another, his daughter, whom he | |
loved more than himself. He kept telling himself that he would consider | |
the whole matter and decide what was right and how he should act, but | |
instead of that he only excited himself more and more. | |
“The first man that turns up—she forgets her father and everything | |
else, runs upstairs and does up her hair and wags her tail and is unlike | |
herself! Glad to throw her father over! And she knew I should notice | |
it. Fr... fr... fr! And don’t I see that that idiot had eyes only for | |
Bourienne—I shall have to get rid of her. And how is it she has not | |
pride enough to see it? If she has no pride for herself she might at | |
least have some for my sake! She must be shown that the blockhead thinks | |
nothing of her and looks only at Bourienne. No, she has no pride... but | |
I’ll let her see....” | |
The old prince knew that if he told his daughter she was making a | |
mistake and that Anatole meant to flirt with Mademoiselle Bourienne, | |
Princess Mary’s self-esteem would be wounded and his point (not to | |
be parted from her) would be gained, so pacifying himself with this | |
thought, he called Tíkhon and began to undress. | |
“What devil brought them here?” thought he, while Tíkhon was | |
putting the nightshirt over his dried-up old body and gray-haired chest. | |
“I never invited them. They came to disturb my life—and there is not | |
much of it left.” | |
“Devil take ‘em!” he muttered, while his head was still covered by | |
the shirt. | |
Tíkhon knew his master’s habit of sometimes thinking aloud, and | |
therefore met with unaltered looks the angrily inquisitive expression of | |
the face that emerged from the shirt. | |
“Gone to bed?” asked the prince. | |
Tíkhon, like all good valets, instinctively knew the direction of his | |
master’s thoughts. He guessed that the question referred to Prince | |
Vasíli and his son. | |
“They have gone to bed and put out their lights, your excellency.” | |
“No good... no good...” said the prince rapidly, and thrusting his | |
feet into his slippers and his arms into the sleeves of his dressing | |
gown, he went to the couch on which he slept. | |
Though no words had passed between Anatole and Mademoiselle Bourienne, | |
they quite understood one another as to the first part of their romance, | |
up to the appearance of the pauvre mère; they understood that they had | |
much to say to one another in private and so they had been seeking an | |
opportunity since morning to meet one another alone. When Princess Mary | |
went to her father’s room at the usual hour, Mademoiselle Bourienne | |
and Anatole met in the conservatory. | |
Princess Mary went to the door of the study with special trepidation. | |
It seemed to her that not only did everybody know that her fate would be | |
decided that day, but that they also knew what she thought about it. She | |
read this in Tíkhon’s face and in that of Prince Vasíli’s valet, | |
who made her a low bow when she met him in the corridor carrying hot | |
water. | |
The old prince was very affectionate and careful in his treatment of | |
his daughter that morning. Princess Mary well knew this painstaking | |
expression of her father’s. His face wore that expression when his | |
dry hands clenched with vexation at her not understanding a sum in | |
arithmetic, when rising from his chair he would walk away from her, | |
repeating in a low voice the same words several times over. | |
He came to the point at once, treating her ceremoniously. | |
“I have had a proposition made me concerning you,” he said with an | |
unnatural smile. “I expect you have guessed that Prince Vasíli has | |
not come and brought his pupil with him” (for some reason Prince | |
Bolkónski referred to Anatole as a “pupil”) “for the sake of my | |
beautiful eyes. Last night a proposition was made me on your account | |
and, as you know my principles, I refer it to you.” | |
“How am I to understand you, mon père?” said the princess, growing | |
pale and then blushing. | |
“How understand me!” cried her father angrily. “Prince Vasíli | |
finds you to his taste as a daughter-in-law and makes a proposal to you | |
on his pupil’s behalf. That’s how it’s to be understood! ‘How | |
understand it’!... And I ask you!” | |
“I do not know what you think, Father,” whispered the princess. | |
“I? I? What of me? Leave me out of the question. I’m not going to | |
get married. What about you? That’s what I want to know.” | |
The princess saw that her father regarded the matter with disapproval, | |
but at that moment the thought occurred to her that her fate would be | |
decided now or never. She lowered her eyes so as not to see the gaze | |
under which she felt that she could not think, but would only be able to | |
submit from habit, and she said: “I wish only to do your will, but if | |
I had to express my own desire...” She had no time to finish. The old | |
prince interrupted her. | |
“That’s admirable!” he shouted. “He will take you with your | |
dowry and take Mademoiselle Bourienne into the bargain. She’ll be the | |
wife, while you...” | |
The prince stopped. He saw the effect these words had produced on his | |
daughter. She lowered her head and was ready to burst into tears. | |
“Now then, now then, I’m only joking!” he said. “Remember this, | |
Princess, I hold to the principle that a maiden has a full right to | |
choose. I give you freedom. Only remember that your life’s happiness | |
depends on your decision. Never mind me!” | |
“But I do not know, Father!” | |
“There’s no need to talk! He receives his orders and will marry you | |
or anybody; but you are free to choose.... Go to your room, think it | |
over, and come back in an hour and tell me in his presence: yes or no. | |
I know you will pray over it. Well, pray if you like, but you had better | |
think it over. Go! Yes or no, yes or no, yes or no!” he still shouted | |
when the princess, as if lost in a fog, had already staggered out of the | |
study. | |
Her fate was decided and happily decided. But what her father had said | |
about Mademoiselle Bourienne was dreadful. It was untrue to be sure, but | |
still it was terrible, and she could not help thinking of it. She was | |
going straight on through the conservatory, neither seeing nor hearing | |
anything, when suddenly the well-known whispering of Mademoiselle | |
Bourienne aroused her. She raised her eyes, and two steps away saw | |
Anatole embracing the Frenchwoman and whispering something to her. With | |
a horrified expression on his handsome face, Anatole looked at Princess | |
Mary, but did not at once take his arm from the waist of Mademoiselle | |
Bourienne who had not yet seen her. | |
“Who’s that? Why? Wait a moment!” Anatole’s face seemed to say. | |
Princess Mary looked at them in silence. She could not understand it. At | |
last Mademoiselle Bourienne gave a scream and ran away. Anatole bowed to | |
Princess Mary with a gay smile, as if inviting her to join in a laugh at | |
this strange incident, and then shrugging his shoulders went to the door | |
that led to his own apartments. | |
An hour later, Tíkhon came to call Princess Mary to the old prince; | |
he added that Prince Vasíli was also there. When Tíkhon came to her | |
Princess Mary was sitting on the sofa in her room, holding the weeping | |
Mademoiselle Bourienne in her arms and gently stroking her hair. The | |
princess’ beautiful eyes with all their former calm radiance were | |
looking with tender affection and pity at Mademoiselle Bourienne’s | |
pretty face. | |
“No, Princess, I have lost your affection forever!” said | |
Mademoiselle Bourienne. | |
“Why? I love you more than ever,” said Princess Mary, “and I will | |
try to do all I can for your happiness.” | |
“But you despise me. You who are so pure can never understand being so | |
carried away by passion. Oh, only my poor mother...” | |
“I quite understand,” answered Princess Mary, with a sad smile. | |
“Calm yourself, my dear. I will go to my father,” she said, and went | |
out. | |
Prince Vasíli, with one leg thrown high over the other and a snuffbox | |
in his hand, was sitting there with a smile of deep emotion on his face, | |
as if stirred to his heart’s core and himself regretting and laughing | |
at his own sensibility, when Princess Mary entered. He hurriedly took a | |
pinch of snuff. | |
“Ah, my dear, my dear!” he began, rising and taking her by both | |
hands. Then, sighing, he added: “My son’s fate is in your hands. | |
Decide, my dear, good, gentle Marie, whom I have always loved as a | |
daughter!” | |
He drew back and a real tear appeared in his eye. | |
“Fr... fr...” snorted Prince Bolkónski. “The prince is making a | |
proposition to you in his pupil’s—I mean, his son’s—name. Do you | |
wish or not to be Prince Anatole Kurágin’s wife? Reply: yes or no,” | |
he shouted, “and then I shall reserve the right to state my opinion | |
also. Yes, my opinion, and only my opinion,” added Prince Bolkónski, | |
turning to Prince Vasíli and answering his imploring look. “Yes, or | |
no?” | |
“My desire is never to leave you, Father, never to separate my | |
life from yours. I don’t wish to marry,” she answered positively, | |
glancing at Prince Vasíli and at her father with her beautiful eyes. | |
“Humbug! Nonsense! Humbug, humbug, humbug!” cried Prince Bolkónski, | |
frowning and taking his daughter’s hand; he did not kiss her, but only | |
bending his forehead to hers just touched it, and pressed her hand so | |
that she winced and uttered a cry. | |
Prince Vasíli rose. | |
“My dear, I must tell you that this is a moment I shall never, never | |
forget. But, my dear, will you not give us a little hope of touching | |
this heart, so kind and generous? Say ‘perhaps’... The future is so | |
long. Say ‘perhaps.’” | |
“Prince, what I have said is all there is in my heart. I thank you for | |
the honor, but I shall never be your son’s wife.” | |
“Well, so that’s finished, my dear fellow! I am very glad to have | |
seen you. Very glad! Go back to your rooms, Princess. Go!” said | |
the old prince. “Very, very glad to have seen you,” repeated he, | |
embracing Prince Vasíli. | |
“My vocation is a different one,” thought Princess Mary. “My | |
vocation is to be happy with another kind of happiness, the happiness | |
of love and self-sacrifice. And cost what it may, I will arrange | |
poor Amélie’s happiness, she loves him so passionately, and so | |
passionately repents. I will do all I can to arrange the match between | |
them. If he is not rich I will give her the means; I will ask my | |
father and Andrew. I shall be so happy when she is his wife. She is so | |
unfortunate, a stranger, alone, helpless! And, oh God, how passionately | |
she must love him if she could so far forget herself! Perhaps I might | |
have done the same!...” thought Princess Mary. | |
CHAPTER VI | |
It was long since the Rostóvs had news of Nicholas. Not till midwinter | |
was the count at last handed a letter addressed in his son’s | |
handwriting. On receiving it, he ran on tiptoe to his study in alarm and | |
haste, trying to escape notice, closed the door, and began to read the | |
letter. | |
Anna Mikháylovna, 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. | |
Anna Mikháylovna, though her circumstances had improved, was still | |
living with the Rostóvs. | |
“My dear friend?” said she, in a tone of pathetic inquiry, prepared | |
to sympathize in any way. | |
The count sobbed yet more. | |
“Nikólenka... a letter... wa... a... s... wounded... my darling | |
boy... the countess... promoted to be an officer... thank God... How | |
tell the little countess!” | |
Anna Mikháylovna 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. | |
At dinner Anna Mikháylovna talked the whole time about the war news | |
and about Nikólenka, twice asked when the last letter had been received | |
from him, though she knew that already, and remarked that they might | |
very likely be getting a letter from him that day. Each time that these | |
hints began to make the countess anxious and she glanced uneasily at | |
the count and at Anna Mikháylovna, the latter very adroitly turned | |
the conversation to insignificant matters. Natásha, who, of the whole | |
family, was the most gifted with a capacity to feel any shades of | |
intonation, look, and expression, pricked up her ears from the beginning | |
of the meal and was certain that there was some secret between her | |
father and Anna Mikháylovna, that it had something to do with her | |
brother, and that Anna Mikháylovna was preparing them for it. Bold as | |
she was, Natásha, who knew how sensitive her mother was to anything | |
relating to Nikólenka, did not venture to ask any questions at dinner, | |
but she was too excited to eat anything and kept wriggling about on her | |
chair regardless of her governess’ remarks. After dinner, she rushed | |
headlong after Anna Mikháylovna and, dashing at her, flung herself on | |
her neck as soon as she overtook her in the sitting room. | |
“Auntie, darling, do tell me what it is!” | |
“Nothing, my dear.” | |
“No, dearest, sweet one, honey, I won’t give up—I know you know | |
something.” | |
Anna Mikháylovna shook her head. | |
“You are a little slyboots,” she said. | |
“A letter from Nikólenka! I’m sure of it!” exclaimed Natásha, | |
reading confirmation in Anna Mikháylovna’s face. | |
“But for God’s sake, be careful, you know how it may affect your | |
mamma.” | |
“I will, I will, only tell me! You won’t? Then I will go and tell at | |
once.” | |
Anna Mikháylovna, in a few words, told her the contents of the letter, | |
on condition that she should tell no one. | |
“No, on my true word of honor,” said Natásha, crossing herself, | |
“I won’t tell anyone!” and she ran off at once to Sónya. | |
“Nikólenka... wounded... a letter,” she announced in gleeful | |
triumph. | |
“Nicholas!” was all Sónya said, instantly turning white. | |
Natásha, seeing the impression the news of her brother’s wound | |
produced on Sónya, felt for the first time the sorrowful side of the | |
news. | |
She rushed to Sónya, hugged her, and began to cry. | |
“A little wound, but he has been made an officer; he is well now, he | |
wrote himself,” said she through her tears. | |
“There now! It’s true that all you women are crybabies,” remarked | |
Pétya, pacing the room with large, resolute strides. “Now I’m very | |
glad, very glad indeed, that my brother has distinguished himself so. | |
You are all blubberers and understand nothing.” | |
Natásha smiled through her tears. | |
“You haven’t read the letter?” asked Sónya. | |
“No, but she said that it was all over and that he’s now an | |
officer.” | |
“Thank God!” said Sónya, crossing herself. “But perhaps she | |
deceived you. Let us go to Mamma.” | |
Pétya paced the room in silence for a time. | |
“If I’d been in Nikólenka’s place I would have killed even more | |
of those Frenchmen,” he said. “What nasty brutes they are! I’d | |
have killed so many that there’d have been a heap of them.” | |
“Hold your tongue, Pétya, what a goose you are!” | |
“I’m not a goose, but they are who cry about trifles,” said | |
Pétya. | |
“Do you remember him?” Natásha suddenly asked, after a moment’s | |
silence. | |
Sónya smiled. | |
“Do I remember Nicholas?” | |
“No, Sónya, but do you remember so that you remember him perfectly, | |
remember everything?” said Natásha, with an expressive gesture, | |
evidently wishing to give her words a very definite meaning. “I | |
remember Nikólenka too, I remember him well,” she said. “But I | |
don’t remember Borís. I don’t remember him a bit.” | |
“What! You don’t remember Borís?” asked Sónya in surprise. | |
“It’s not that I don’t remember—I know what he is like, but not | |
as I remember Nikólenka. Him—I just shut my eyes and remember, | |
but Borís... No!” (She shut her eyes.) “No! there’s nothing at | |
all.” | |
“Oh, Natásha!” said Sónya, looking ecstatically and earnestly at | |
her friend as if she did not consider her worthy to hear what she meant | |
to say and as if she were saying it to someone else, with whom joking | |
was out of the question, “I am in love with your brother once for all | |
and, whatever may happen to him or to me, shall never cease to love him | |
as long as I live.” | |
Natásha looked at Sónya with wondering and inquisitive eyes, and said | |
nothing. She felt that Sónya was speaking the truth, that there was | |
such love as Sónya was speaking of. But Natásha had not yet felt | |
anything like it. She believed it could be, but did not understand it. | |
“Shall you write to him?” she asked. | |
Sónya became thoughtful. The question of how to write to Nicholas, and | |
whether she ought to write, tormented her. Now that he was already an | |
officer and a wounded hero, would it be right to remind him of herself | |
and, as it might seem, of the obligations to her he had taken on | |
himself? | |
“I don’t know. I think if he writes, I will write too,” she said, | |
blushing. | |
“And you won’t feel ashamed to write to him?” | |
Sónya smiled. | |
“No.” | |
“And I should be ashamed to write to Borís. I’m not going to.” | |
“Why should you be ashamed?” | |
“Well, I don’t know. It’s awkward and would make me ashamed.” | |
“And I know why she’d be ashamed,” said Pétya, offended by | |
Natásha’s previous remark. “It’s because she was in love with | |
that fat one in spectacles” (that was how Pétya described his | |
namesake, the new Count Bezúkhov) “and now she’s in love with that | |
singer” (he meant Natásha’s Italian singing master), “that’s | |
why she’s ashamed!” | |
“Pétya, you’re a stupid!” said Natásha. | |
“Not more stupid than you, madam,” said the nine-year-old Pétya, | |
with the air of an old brigadier. | |
The countess had been prepared by Anna Mikháylovna’s hints at dinner. | |
On retiring to her own room, she sat in an armchair, her eyes fixed on a | |
miniature portrait of her son on the lid of a snuffbox, while the tears | |
kept coming into her eyes. Anna Mikháylovna, with the letter, came on | |
tiptoe to the countess’ door and paused. | |
“Don’t come in,” she said to the old count who was following her. | |
“Come later.” And she went in, closing the door behind her. | |
The count put his ear to the keyhole and listened. | |
At first he heard the sound of indifferent voices, then Anna | |
Mikháylovna’s voice alone in a long speech, then a cry, then silence, | |
then both voices together with glad intonations, and then footsteps. | |
Anna Mikháylovna opened the door. Her face wore the proud expression | |
of a surgeon who has just performed a difficult operation and admits the | |
public to appreciate his skill. | |
“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. Véra, Natásha, Sónya, and Pétya now entered the room, | |
and the reading of the letter began. After a brief description of | |
the campaign and the two battles in which he had taken part, and his | |
promotion, Nicholas said that he kissed his father’s and mother’s | |
hands asking for their blessing, and that he kissed Véra, Natásha, and | |
Pétya. Besides that, he sent greetings to Monsieur Schelling, Madame | |
Schoss, and his old nurse, and asked them to kiss for him “dear | |
Sónya, whom he loved and thought of just the same as ever.” When she | |
heard this Sónya blushed so that tears came into her eyes and, unable | |
to bear the looks turned upon her, ran away into the dancing hall, | |
whirled round it at full speed with her dress puffed out like a balloon, | |
and, flushed and smiling, plumped down on the floor. The countess was | |
crying. | |
“Why are you crying, Mamma?” asked Véra. “From all he says one | |
should be glad and not cry.” | |
This was quite true, but the count, the countess, and Natásha looked | |
at her reproachfully. “And who is it she takes after?” thought the | |
countess. | |
Nicholas’ letter was read over hundreds of times, and those who were | |
considered worthy to hear it had to come to the countess, for she | |
did not let it out of her hands. The tutors came, and the nurses, and | |
Dmítri, and several acquaintances, and the countess reread the letter | |
each time with fresh pleasure and each time discovered in it fresh | |
proofs of Nikólenka’s virtues. 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. The universal experience of ages, showing that children do | |
grow imperceptibly from the cradle to manhood, did not exist for the | |
countess. Her son’s growth toward manhood, at each of its stages, | |
had seemed as extraordinary to her as if there had never existed the | |
millions of human beings who grew up in the same way. As twenty | |
years before, it seemed impossible that the little creature who lived | |
somewhere under her heart would ever cry, suck her breast, and begin to | |
speak, so now she could not believe that that little creature could be | |
this strong, brave man, this model son and officer that, judging by this | |
letter, he now was. | |
“What a style! How charmingly he describes!” said she, reading the | |
descriptive part of the letter. “And what a soul! Not a word about | |
himself.... Not a word! About some Denísov or other, though he himself, | |
I dare say, is braver than any of them. He says nothing about his | |
sufferings. What a heart! How like him it is! And how he has remembered | |
everybody! Not forgetting anyone. I always said when he was only so | |
high—I always said....” | |
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. Anna Mikháylovna, | |
practical woman that she was, had even managed by favor with army | |
authorities to secure advantageous means of communication for herself | |
and her son. She had opportunities of sending her letters to the Grand | |
Duke Constantine Pávlovich, who commanded the Guards. The Rostóvs | |
supposed that The Russian Guards, Abroad, was quite a definite address, | |
and that if a letter reached the Grand Duke in command of the Guards | |
there was no reason why it should not reach the Pávlograd regiment, | |
which was presumably somewhere in the same neighborhood. And so it was | |
decided to send the letters and money by the Grand Duke’s courier to | |
Borís and Borís was to forward them to Nicholas. The letters were from | |
the old count, the countess, Pétya, Véra, Natásha, and Sónya, and | |
finally there were six thousand rubles for his outfit and various other | |
things the old count sent to his son. | |
CHAPTER VII | |
On the twelfth of November, Kutúzov’s active army, in camp before | |
Olmütz, was preparing to be reviewed next day by the two Emperors—the | |
Russian and the Austrian. The Guards, just arrived from Russia, spent | |
the night ten miles from Olmütz and next morning were to come straight | |
to the review, reaching the field at Olmütz by ten o’clock. | |
That day Nicholas Rostóv received a letter from Borís, telling him | |
that the Ismáylov regiment was quartered for the night ten miles from | |
Olmütz and that he wanted to see him as he had a letter and money for | |
him. Rostóv was particularly in need of money now that the troops, | |
after their active service, were stationed near Olmütz and the camp | |
swarmed with well-provisioned sutlers and Austrian Jews offering | |
all sorts of tempting wares. The Pávlograds held feast after feast, | |
celebrating awards they had received for the campaign, and made | |
expeditions to Olmütz to visit a certain Caroline the Hungarian, | |
who had recently opened a restaurant there with girls as waitresses. | |
Rostóv, who had just celebrated his promotion to a cornetcy and bought | |
Denísov’s horse, Bedouin, was in debt all round, to his comrades and | |
the sutlers. On receiving Borís’ letter he rode with a fellow officer | |
to Olmütz, dined there, drank a bottle of wine, and then set off alone | |
to the Guards’ camp to find his old playmate. Rostóv had not yet had | |
time to get his uniform. He had on a shabby cadet jacket, decorated with | |
a soldier’s cross, equally shabby cadet’s riding breeches lined with | |
worn leather, and an officer’s saber with a sword knot. The Don horse | |
he was riding was one he had bought from a Cossack during the campaign, | |
and he wore a crumpled hussar cap stuck jauntily back on one side of his | |
head. As he rode up to the camp he thought how he would impress Borís | |
and all his comrades of the Guards by his appearance—that of a | |
fighting hussar who had been under fire. | |
The Guards had made their whole march as if on a pleasure trip, parading | |
their cleanliness and discipline. They had come by easy stages, their | |
knapsacks conveyed on carts, and the Austrian authorities had provided | |
excellent dinners for the officers at every halting place. The regiments | |
had entered and left the town with their bands playing, and by the Grand | |
Duke’s orders the men had marched all the way in step (a practice on | |
which the Guards prided themselves), the officers on foot and at their | |
proper posts. Borís had been quartered, and had marched all the | |
way, with Berg who was already in command of a company. Berg, who had | |
obtained his captaincy during the campaign, had gained the confidence of | |
his superiors by his promptitude and accuracy and had arranged his money | |
matters very satisfactorily. Borís, during the campaign, had made the | |
acquaintance of many persons who might prove useful to him, and by | |
a letter of recommendation he had brought from Pierre had become | |
acquainted with Prince Andrew Bolkónski, through whom he hoped to | |
obtain a post on the commander in chief’s staff. Berg and Borís, | |
having rested after yesterday’s march, were sitting, clean and neatly | |
dressed, at a round table in the clean quarters allotted to them, | |
playing chess. Berg held a smoking pipe between his knees. Borís, in | |
the accurate way characteristic of him, was building a little pyramid of | |
chessmen with his delicate white fingers while awaiting Berg’s move, | |
and watched his opponent’s face, evidently thinking about the game as | |
he always thought only of whatever he was engaged on. | |
“Well, how are you going to get out of that?” he remarked. | |
“We’ll try to,” replied Berg, touching a pawn and then removing | |
his hand. | |
At that moment the door opened. | |
“Here he is at last!” shouted Rostóv. “And Berg too! Oh, you | |
petisenfans, allay cushay dormir!” he exclaimed, imitating his Russian | |
nurse’s French, at which he and Borís used to laugh long ago. | |
“Dear me, how you have changed!” | |
Borís rose to meet Rostóv, but in doing so did not omit to steady and | |
replace some chessmen that were falling. He was about to embrace his | |
friend, but Nicholas avoided him. With that peculiar feeling of youth, | |
that dread of beaten tracks, and wish to express itself in a manner | |
different from that of its elders which is often insincere, Nicholas | |
wished to do something special on meeting his friend. He wanted to pinch | |
him, push him, do anything but kiss him—a thing everybody did. But | |
notwithstanding this, Borís embraced him in a quiet, friendly way and | |
kissed him three times. | |
They had not met for nearly half a year and, being at the age when young | |
men take their first steps on life’s road, each saw immense changes in | |
the other, quite a new reflection of the society in which they had taken | |
those first steps. Both had changed greatly since they last met and both | |
were in a hurry to show the changes that had taken place in them. | |
“Oh, you damned dandies! Clean and fresh as if you’d been to a fete, | |
not like us sinners of the line,” cried Rostóv, with martial swagger | |
and with baritone notes in his voice, new to Borís, pointing to his own | |
mud-bespattered breeches. The German landlady, hearing Rostóv’s loud | |
voice, popped her head in at the door. | |
“Eh, is she pretty?” he asked with a wink. | |
“Why do you shout so? You’ll frighten them!” said Borís. “I did | |
not expect you today,” he added. “I only sent you the note yesterday | |
by Bolkónski—an adjutant of Kutúzov’s, who’s a friend of mine. | |
I did not think he would get it to you so quickly.... Well, how are you? | |
Been under fire already?” asked Borís. | |
Without answering, Rostóv shook the soldier’s Cross of St. George | |
fastened to the cording of his uniform and, indicating a bandaged arm, | |
glanced at Berg with a smile. | |
“As you see,” he said. | |
“Indeed? Yes, yes!” said Borís, with a smile. “And we too have | |
had a splendid march. You know, of course, that His Imperial Highness | |
rode with our regiment all the time, so that we had every comfort and | |
every advantage. What receptions we had in Poland! What dinners and | |
balls! I can’t tell you. And the Tsarévich was very gracious to all | |
our officers.” | |
And the two friends told each other of their doings, the one of his | |
hussar revels and life in the fighting line, the other of the pleasures | |
and advantages of service under members of the Imperial family. | |
“Oh, you Guards!” said Rostóv. “I say, send for some wine.” | |
Borís made a grimace. | |
“If you really want it,” said he. | |
He went to his bed, drew a purse from under the clean pillow, and sent | |
for wine. | |
“Yes, and I have some money and a letter to give you,” he added. | |
Rostóv took the letter and, throwing the money on the sofa, put both | |
arms on the table and began to read. After reading a few lines, he | |
glanced angrily at Berg, then, meeting his eyes, hid his face behind the | |
letter. | |
“Well, they’ve sent you a tidy sum,” said Berg, eying the heavy | |
purse that sank into the sofa. “As for us, Count, we get along on our | |
pay. I can tell you for myself...” | |
“I say, Berg, my dear fellow,” said Rostóv, “when you get a | |
letter from home and meet one of your own people whom you want to talk | |
everything over with, and I happen to be there, I’ll go at once, to | |
be out of your way! Do go somewhere, anywhere... to the devil!” he | |
exclaimed, and immediately seizing him by the shoulder and looking | |
amiably into his face, evidently wishing to soften the rudeness of his | |
words, he added, “Don’t be hurt, my dear fellow; you know I speak | |
from my heart as to an old acquaintance.” | |
“Oh, don’t mention it, Count! I quite understand,” said Berg, | |
getting up and speaking in a muffled and guttural voice. | |
“Go across to our hosts: they invited you,” added Borís. | |
Berg put on the cleanest of coats, without a spot or speck of dust, | |
stood before a looking glass and brushed the hair on his temples | |
upwards, in the way affected by the Emperor Alexander, and, having | |
assured himself from the way Rostóv looked at it that his coat had been | |
noticed, left the room with a pleasant smile. | |
“Oh dear, what a beast I am!” muttered Rostóv, as he read the | |
letter. | |
“Why?” | |
“Oh, what a pig I am, not to have written and to have given them | |
such a fright! Oh, what a pig I am!” he repeated, flushing suddenly. | |
“Well, have you sent Gabriel for some wine? All right let’s have | |
some!” | |
In the letter from his parents was enclosed a letter of recommendation | |
to Bagratión which the old countess at Anna Mikháylovna’s advice had | |
obtained through an acquaintance and sent to her son, asking him to take | |
it to its destination and make use of it. | |
“What nonsense! Much I need it!” said Rostóv, throwing the letter | |
under the table. | |
“Why have you thrown that away?” asked Borís. | |
“It is some letter of recommendation... what the devil do I want it | |
for!” | |
“Why ‘What the devil’?” said Borís, picking it up and reading | |
the address. “This letter would be of great use to you.” | |
“I want nothing, and I won’t be anyone’s adjutant.” | |
“Why not?” inquired Borís. | |
“It’s a lackey’s job!” | |
“You are still the same dreamer, I see,” remarked Borís, shaking | |
his head. | |
“And you’re still the same diplomatist! But that’s not the | |
point... Come, how are you?” asked Rostóv. | |
“Well, as you see. So far everything’s all right, but I confess I | |
should much like to be an adjutant and not remain at the front.” | |
“Why?” | |
“Because when once a man starts on military service, he should try to | |
make as successful a career of it as possible.” | |
“Oh, that’s it!” said Rostóv, evidently thinking of something | |
else. | |
He looked intently and inquiringly into his friend’s eyes, evidently | |
trying in vain to find the answer to some question. | |
Old Gabriel brought in the wine. | |
“Shouldn’t we now send for Berg?” asked Borís. “He would drink | |
with you. I can’t.” | |
“Well, send for him... and how do you get on with that German?” | |
asked Rostóv, with a contemptuous smile. | |
“He is a very, very nice, honest, and pleasant fellow,” answered | |
Borís. | |
Again Rostóv looked intently into Borís’ eyes and sighed. Berg | |
returned, and over the bottle of wine conversation between the three | |
officers became animated. The Guardsmen told Rostóv of their march and | |
how they had been made much of in Russia, Poland, and abroad. They spoke | |
of the sayings and doings of their commander, the Grand Duke, and told | |
stories of his kindness and irascibility. Berg, as usual, kept silent | |
when the subject did not relate to himself, but in connection with the | |
stories of the Grand Duke’s quick temper he related with gusto how in | |
Galicia he had managed to deal with the Grand Duke when the latter | |
made a tour of the regiments and was annoyed at the irregularity of | |
a movement. With a pleasant smile Berg related how the Grand Duke | |
had ridden up to him in a violent passion, shouting: “Arnauts!” | |
(“Arnauts” was the Tsarévich’s favorite expression when he was in | |
a rage) and called for the company commander. | |
“Would you believe it, Count, I was not at all alarmed, because I knew | |
I was right. Without boasting, you know, I may say that I know the Army | |
Orders by heart and know the Regulations as well as I do the Lord’s | |
Prayer. So, Count, there never is any negligence in my company, and | |
so my conscience was at ease. I came forward....” (Berg stood up and | |
showed how he presented himself, with his hand to his cap, and really | |
it would have been difficult for a face to express greater respect and | |
self-complacency than his did.) “Well, he stormed at me, as the saying | |
is, stormed and stormed and stormed! It was not a matter of life but | |
rather of death, as the saying is. ‘Albanians!’ and ‘devils!’ | |
and ‘To Siberia!’” said Berg with a sagacious smile. “I knew I | |
was in the right so I kept silent; was not that best, Count?... ‘Hey, | |
are you dumb?’ he shouted. Still I remained silent. And what do you | |
think, Count? The next day it was not even mentioned in the Orders of | |
the Day. That’s what keeping one’s head means. That’s the way, | |
Count,” said Berg, lighting his pipe and emitting rings of smoke. | |
“Yes, that was fine,” said Rostóv, smiling. | |
But Borís noticed that he was preparing to make fun of Berg, and | |
skillfully changed the subject. He asked him to tell them how and where | |
he got his wound. This pleased Rostóv and he began talking about it, | |
and as he went on became more and more animated. He told them of his | |
Schön Grabern affair, just as those who have taken part in a battle | |
generally do describe it, that is, as they would like it to have been, | |
as they have heard it described by others, and as sounds well, but not | |
at all as it really was. Rostóv was a truthful young man and would on | |
no account have told a deliberate lie. He began his story meaning to | |
tell everything just as it happened, but imperceptibly, involuntarily, | |
and inevitably he lapsed into falsehood. If he had told the truth to his | |
hearers—who like himself had often heard stories of attacks and had | |
formed a definite idea of what an attack was and were expecting to hear | |
just such a story—they would either not have believed him or, still | |
worse, would have thought that Rostóv was himself to blame since what | |
generally happens to the narrators of cavalry attacks had not happened | |
to him. He could not tell them simply that everyone went at a trot and | |
that he fell off his horse and sprained his arm and then ran as hard as | |
he could from a Frenchman into the wood. Besides, to tell everything as | |
it really happened, it would have been necessary to make an effort of | |
will to tell only what happened. It is very difficult to tell the truth, | |
and young people are rarely capable of it. His hearers expected a story | |
of how beside himself and all aflame with excitement, he had flown like | |
a storm at the square, cut his way in, slashed right and left, how his | |
saber had tasted flesh and he had fallen exhausted, and so on. And so he | |
told them all that. | |
In the middle of his story, just as he was saying: “You cannot imagine | |
what a strange frenzy one experiences during an attack,” Prince | |
Andrew, whom Borís was expecting, entered the room. Prince Andrew, who | |
liked to help young men, was flattered by being asked for his assistance | |
and being well disposed toward Borís, who had managed to please him the | |
day before, he wished to do what the young man wanted. Having been sent | |
with papers from Kutúzov to the Tsarévich, he looked in on Borís, | |
hoping to find him alone. When he came in and saw an hussar of the line | |
recounting his military exploits (Prince Andrew could not endure | |
that sort of man), he gave Borís a pleasant smile, frowned as with | |
half-closed eyes he looked at Rostóv, bowed slightly and wearily, and | |
sat down languidly on the sofa: he felt it unpleasant to have dropped | |
in on bad company. Rostóv flushed up on noticing this, but he did not | |
care, this was a mere stranger. Glancing, however, at Borís, he saw | |
that he too seemed ashamed of the hussar of the line. | |
In spite of Prince Andrew’s disagreeable, ironical tone, in spite of | |
the contempt with which Rostóv, from his fighting army point of view, | |
regarded all these little adjutants on the staff of whom the newcomer | |
was evidently one, Rostóv felt confused, blushed, and became silent. | |
Borís inquired what news there might be on the staff, and what, without | |
indiscretion, one might ask about our plans. | |
“We shall probably advance,” replied Bolkónski, evidently reluctant | |
to say more in the presence of a stranger. | |
Berg took the opportunity to ask, with great politeness, whether, as was | |
rumored, the allowance of forage money to captains of companies would be | |
doubled. To this Prince Andrew answered with a smile that he could | |
give no opinion on such an important government order, and Berg laughed | |
gaily. | |
“As to your business,” Prince Andrew continued, addressing Borís, | |
“we will talk of it later” (and he looked round at Rostóv). “Come | |
to me after the review and we will do what is possible.” | |
And, having glanced round the room, Prince Andrew turned to Rostóv, | |
whose state of unconquerable childish embarrassment now changing to | |
anger he did not condescend to notice, and said: “I think you were | |
talking of the Schön Grabern affair? Were you there?” | |
“I was there,” said Rostóv angrily, as if intending to insult the | |
aide-de-camp. | |
Bolkónski noticed the hussar’s state of mind, and it amused him. With | |
a slightly contemptuous smile, he said: “Yes, there are many stories | |
now told about that affair!” | |
“Yes, stories!” repeated Rostóv loudly, looking with eyes suddenly | |
grown furious, now at Borís, now at Bolkónski. “Yes, many stories! | |
But our stories are the stories of men who have been under the enemy’s | |
fire! Our stories have some weight, not like the stories of those | |
fellows on the staff who get rewards without doing anything!” | |
“Of whom you imagine me to be one?” said Prince Andrew, with a quiet | |
and particularly amiable smile. | |
A strange feeling of exasperation and yet of respect for this man’s | |
self-possession mingled at that moment in Rostóv’s soul. | |
“I am not talking about you,” he said, “I don’t know you and, | |
frankly, I don’t want to. I am speaking of the staff in general.” | |
“And I will tell you this,” Prince Andrew interrupted in a tone of | |
quiet authority, “you wish to insult me, and I am ready to agree with | |
you that it would be very easy to do so if you haven’t sufficient | |
self-respect, but admit that the time and place are very badly chosen. | |
In a day or two we shall all have to take part in a greater and more | |
serious duel, and besides, Drubetskóy, who says he is an old friend | |
of yours, is not at all to blame that my face has the misfortune to | |
displease you. However,” he added rising, “you know my name and | |
where to find me, but don’t forget that I do not regard either myself | |
or you as having been at all insulted, and as a man older than you, my | |
advice is to let the matter drop. Well then, on Friday after the review | |
I shall expect you, Drubetskóy. Au revoir!” exclaimed Prince Andrew, | |
and with a bow to them both he went out. | |
Only when Prince Andrew was gone did Rostóv think of what he ought to | |
have said. And he was still more angry at having omitted to say it. He | |
ordered his horse at once and, coldly taking leave of Borís, rode | |
home. Should he go to headquarters next day and challenge that affected | |
adjutant, or really let the matter drop, was the question that worried | |
him all the way. He thought angrily of the pleasure he would have at | |
seeing the fright of that small and frail but proud man when covered by | |
his pistol, and then he felt with surprise that of all the men he knew | |
there was none he would so much like to have for a friend as that very | |
adjutant whom he so hated. | |
CHAPTER VIII | |
The day after Rostóv had been to see Borís, a review was held of the | |
Austrian and Russian troops, both those freshly arrived from Russia and | |
those who had been campaigning under Kutúzov. The two Emperors, | |
the Russian with his heir the Tsarévich, and the Austrian with the | |
Archduke, inspected the allied army of eighty thousand men. | |
From early morning the smart clean troops were on the move, forming up | |
on the field before the fortress. Now thousands of feet and bayonets | |
moved and halted at the officers’ command, turned with banners flying, | |
formed up at intervals, and wheeled round other similar masses of | |
infantry in different uniforms; now was heard the rhythmic beat of | |
hoofs and the jingling of showy cavalry in blue, red, and green braided | |
uniforms, with smartly dressed bandsmen in front mounted on black, roan, | |
or gray horses; then again, spreading out with the brazen clatter of the | |
polished shining cannon that quivered on the gun carriages and with | |
the smell of linstocks, came the artillery which crawled between the | |
infantry and cavalry and took up its appointed position. Not only the | |
generals in full parade uniforms, with their thin or thick waists drawn | |
in to the utmost, their red necks squeezed into their stiff collars, and | |
wearing scarves and all their decorations, not only the elegant, pomaded | |
officers, but every soldier with his freshly washed and shaven face and | |
his weapons clean and polished to the utmost, and every horse groomed | |
till its coat shone like satin and every hair of its wetted mane lay | |
smooth—felt that no small matter was happening, but an important and | |
solemn affair. Every general and every soldier was conscious of his own | |
insignificance, aware of being but a drop in that ocean of men, and | |
yet at the same time was conscious of his strength as a part of that | |
enormous whole. | |
From early morning strenuous activities and efforts had begun and by ten | |
o’clock all had been brought into due order. The ranks were drawn | |
up on the vast field. The whole army was extended in three lines: the | |
cavalry in front, behind it the artillery, and behind that again the | |
infantry. | |
A space like a street was left between each two lines of troops. The | |
three parts of that army were sharply distinguished: Kutúzov’s | |
fighting army (with the Pávlograds on the right flank of the front); | |
those recently arrived from Russia, both Guards and regiments of the | |
line; and the Austrian troops. But they all stood in the same lines, | |
under one command, and in a like order. | |
Like wind over leaves ran an excited whisper: “They’re coming! | |
They’re coming!” Alarmed voices were heard, and a stir of final | |
preparation swept over all the troops. | |
From the direction of Olmütz in front of them, a group was seen | |
approaching. And at that moment, though the day was still, a light gust | |
of wind blowing over the army slightly stirred the streamers on the | |
lances and the unfolded standards fluttered against their staffs. It | |
looked as if by that slight motion the army itself was expressing its | |
joy at the approach of the Emperors. One voice was heard shouting: | |
“Eyes front!” Then, like the crowing of cocks at sunrise, this was | |
repeated by others from various sides and all became silent. | |
In the deathlike stillness only the tramp of horses was heard. This | |
was the Emperors’ suites. The Emperors rode up to the flank, and the | |
trumpets of the first cavalry regiment played the general march. It | |
seemed as though not the trumpeters were playing, but as if the army | |
itself, rejoicing at the Emperors’ approach, had naturally burst into | |
music. Amid these sounds, only the youthful kindly voice of the Emperor | |
Alexander was clearly heard. He gave the words of greeting, and the | |
first regiment roared “Hurrah!” so deafeningly, continuously, and | |
joyfully that the men themselves were awed by their multitude and the | |
immensity of the power they constituted. | |
Rostóv, standing in the front lines of Kutúzov’s army which the Tsar | |
approached first, experienced the same feeling as every other man in | |
that army: a feeling of self-forgetfulness, a proud consciousness of | |
might, and a passionate attraction to him who was the cause of this | |
triumph. | |
He felt that at a single word from that man all this vast mass (and he | |
himself an insignificant atom in it) would go through fire and water, | |
commit crime, die, or perform deeds of highest heroism, and so he could | |
not but tremble and his heart stand still at the imminence of that word. | |
“Hurrah! Hurrah! Hurrah!” thundered from all sides, one regiment | |
after another greeting the Tsar with the strains of the march, and then | |
“Hurrah!”... Then the general march, and again “Hurrah! Hurrah!” | |
growing ever stronger and fuller and merging into a deafening roar. | |
Till the Tsar reached it, each regiment in its silence and immobility | |
seemed like a lifeless body, but as soon as he came up it became alive, | |
its thunder joining the roar of the whole line along which he had | |
already passed. Through the terrible and deafening roar of those voices, | |
amid the square masses of troops standing motionless as if turned to | |
stone, hundreds of riders composing the suites moved carelessly but | |
symmetrically and above all freely, and in front of them two men—the | |
Emperors. Upon them the undivided, tensely passionate attention of that | |
whole mass of men was concentrated. | |
The handsome young Emperor Alexander, in the uniform of the Horse | |
Guards, wearing a cocked hat with its peaks front and back, with his | |
pleasant face and resonant though not loud voice, attracted everyone’s | |
attention. | |
Rostóv was not far from the trumpeters, and with his keen sight had | |
recognized the Tsar and watched his approach. When he was within twenty | |
paces, and Nicholas could clearly distinguish every detail of his | |
handsome, happy young face, he experienced a feeling of tenderness | |
and ecstasy such as he had never before known. Every trait and every | |
movement of the Tsar’s seemed to him enchanting. | |
Stopping in front of the Pávlograds, the Tsar said something in French | |
to the Austrian Emperor and smiled. | |
Seeing that smile, Rostóv involuntarily smiled himself and felt a still | |
stronger flow of love for his sovereign. He longed to show that love in | |
some way and knowing that this was impossible was ready to cry. The Tsar | |
called the colonel of the regiment and said a few words to him. | |
“Oh God, what would happen to me if the Emperor spoke to me?” | |
thought Rostóv. “I should die of happiness!” | |
The Tsar addressed the officers also: “I thank you all, gentlemen, I | |
thank you with my whole heart.” To Rostóv every word sounded like a | |
voice from heaven. How gladly would he have died at once for his Tsar! | |
“You have earned the St. George’s standards and will be worthy of | |
them.” | |
“Oh, to die, to die for him,” thought Rostóv. | |
The Tsar said something more which Rostóv did not hear, and the | |
soldiers, straining their lungs, shouted “Hurrah!” | |
Rostóv too, bending over his saddle, shouted “Hurrah!” with all his | |
might, feeling that he would like to injure himself by that shout, if | |
only to express his rapture fully. | |
The Tsar stopped a few minutes in front of the hussars as if undecided. | |
“How can the Emperor be undecided?” thought Rostóv, but then even | |
this indecision appeared to him majestic and enchanting, like everything | |
else the Tsar did. | |
That hesitation lasted only an instant. The Tsar’s foot, in the narrow | |
pointed boot then fashionable, touched the groin of the bobtailed bay | |
mare he rode, his hand in a white glove gathered up the reins, and he | |
moved off accompanied by an irregularly swaying sea of aides-de-camp. | |
Farther and farther he rode away, stopping at other regiments, till at | |
last only his white plumes were visible to Rostóv from amid the suites | |
that surrounded the Emperors. | |
Among the gentlemen of the suite, Rostóv noticed Bolkónski, sitting | |
his horse indolently and carelessly. Rostóv recalled their quarrel of | |
yesterday and the question presented itself whether he ought or ought | |
not to challenge Bolkónski. “Of course not!” he now thought. “Is | |
it worth thinking or speaking of it at such a moment? At a time of such | |
love, such rapture, and such self-sacrifice, what do any of our quarrels | |
and affronts matter? I love and forgive everybody now.” | |
When the Emperor had passed nearly all the regiments, the troops began | |
a ceremonial march past him, and Rostóv on Bedouin, recently purchased | |
from Denísov, rode past too, at the rear of his squadron—that is, | |
alone and in full view of the Emperor. | |
Before he reached him, Rostóv, who was a splendid horseman, spurred | |
Bedouin twice and successfully put him to the showy trot in which the | |
animal went when excited. Bending his foaming muzzle to his chest, his | |
tail extended, Bedouin, as if also conscious of the Emperor’s eye | |
upon him, passed splendidly, lifting his feet with a high and graceful | |
action, as if flying through the air without touching the ground. | |
Rostóv himself, his legs well back and his stomach drawn in and feeling | |
himself one with his horse, rode past the Emperor with a frowning but | |
blissful face “like a vewy devil,” as Denísov expressed it. | |
“Fine fellows, the Pávlograds!” remarked the Emperor. | |
“My God, how happy I should be if he ordered me to leap into the fire | |
this instant!” thought Rostóv. | |
When the review was over, the newly arrived officers, and also | |
Kutúzov’s, collected in groups and began to talk about the awards, | |
about the Austrians and their uniforms, about their lines, about | |
Bonaparte, and how badly the latter would fare now, especially if the | |
Essen corps arrived and Prussia took our side. | |
But the talk in every group was chiefly about the Emperor Alexander. His | |
every word and movement was described with ecstasy. | |
They all had but one wish: to advance as soon as possible against the | |
enemy under the Emperor’s command. Commanded by the Emperor himself | |
they could not fail to vanquish anyone, be it whom it might: so thought | |
Rostóv and most of the officers after the review. | |
All were then more confident of victory than the winning of two battles | |
would have made them. | |
CHAPTER IX | |
The day after the review, Borís, in his best uniform and with his | |
comrade Berg’s best wishes for success, rode to Olmütz to see | |
Bolkónski, wishing to profit by his friendliness and obtain for himself | |
the best post he could—preferably that of adjutant to some important | |
personage, a position in the army which seemed to him most attractive. | |
“It is all very well for Rostóv, whose father sends him ten thousand | |
rubles at a time, to talk about not wishing to cringe to anybody and not | |
be anyone’s lackey, but I who have nothing but my brains have to | |
make a career and must not miss opportunities, but must avail myself of | |
them!” he reflected. | |
He did not find Prince Andrew in Olmütz that day, but the appearance of | |
the town where the headquarters and the diplomatic corps were stationed | |
and the two Emperors were living with their suites, households, and | |
courts only strengthened his desire to belong to that higher world. | |
He knew no one, and despite his smart Guardsman’s uniform, all these | |
exalted personages passing in the streets in their elegant carriages | |
with their plumes, ribbons, and medals, both courtiers and military | |
men, seemed so immeasurably above him, an insignificant officer of the | |
Guards, that they not only did not wish to, but simply could not, be | |
aware of his existence. At the quarters of the commander in chief, | |
Kutúzov, where he inquired for Bolkónski, all the adjutants and even | |
the orderlies looked at him as if they wished to impress on him that a | |
great many officers like him were always coming there and that everybody | |
was heartily sick of them. In spite of this, or rather because of | |
it, next day, November 15, after dinner he again went to Olmütz and, | |
entering the house occupied by Kutúzov, asked for Bolkónski. Prince | |
Andrew was in and Borís was shown into a large hall probably formerly | |
used for dancing, but in which five beds now stood, and furniture of | |
various kinds: a table, chairs, and a clavichord. One adjutant, nearest | |
the door, was sitting at the table in a Persian dressing gown, writing. | |
Another, the red, stout Nesvítski, lay on a bed with his arms under his | |
head, laughing with an officer who had sat down beside him. A third was | |
playing a Viennese waltz on the clavichord, while a fourth, lying on | |
the clavichord, sang the tune. Bolkónski was not there. None of these | |
gentlemen changed his position on seeing Borís. The one who was writing | |
and whom Borís addressed turned round crossly and told him Bolkónski | |
was on duty and that he should go through the door on the left into the | |
reception room if he wished to see him. Borís thanked him and went to | |
the reception room, where he found some ten officers and generals. | |
When he entered, Prince Andrew, his eyes drooping contemptuously (with | |
that peculiar expression of polite weariness which plainly says, “If | |
it were not my duty I would not talk to you for a moment”), was | |
listening to an old Russian general with decorations, who stood very | |
erect, almost on tiptoe, with a soldier’s obsequious expression on his | |
purple face, reporting something. | |
“Very well, then, be so good as to wait,” said Prince Andrew to the | |
general, in Russian, speaking with the French intonation he affected | |
when he wished to speak contemptuously, and noticing Borís, Prince | |
Andrew, paying no more heed to the general who ran after him imploring | |
him to hear something more, nodded and turned to him with a cheerful | |
smile. | |
At that moment Borís clearly realized what he had before surmised, that | |
in the army, besides the subordination and discipline prescribed in the | |
military code, which he and the others knew in the regiment, there was | |
another, more important, subordination, which made this tight-laced, | |
purple-faced general wait respectfully while Captain Prince Andrew, for | |
his own pleasure, chose to chat with Lieutenant Drubetskóy. More than | |
ever was Borís resolved to serve in future not according to the written | |
code, but under this unwritten law. He felt now that merely by having | |
been recommended to Prince Andrew he had already risen above the general | |
who at the front had the power to annihilate him, a lieutenant of the | |
Guards. Prince Andrew came up to him and took his hand. | |
“I am very sorry you did not find me in yesterday. I was fussing about | |
with Germans all day. We went with Weyrother to survey the dispositions. | |
When Germans start being accurate, there’s no end to it!” | |
Borís smiled, as if he understood what Prince Andrew was alluding to | |
as something generally known. But it was the first time he had heard | |
Weyrother’s name, or even the term “dispositions.” | |
“Well, my dear fellow, so you still want to be an adjutant? I have | |
been thinking about you.” | |
“Yes, I was thinking”—for some reason Borís could not help | |
blushing—“of asking the commander in chief. He has had a letter from | |
Prince Kurágin about me. I only wanted to ask because I fear the Guards | |
won’t be in action,” he added as if in apology. | |
“All right, all right. We’ll talk it over,” replied Prince Andrew. | |
“Only let me report this gentleman’s business, and I shall be at | |
your disposal.” | |
While Prince Andrew went to report about the purple-faced general, that | |
gentleman—evidently not sharing Borís’ conception of the advantages | |
of the unwritten code of subordination—looked so fixedly at the | |
presumptuous lieutenant who had prevented his finishing what he had to | |
say to the adjutant that Borís felt uncomfortable. He turned away and | |
waited impatiently for Prince Andrew’s return from the commander in | |
chief’s room. | |
“You see, my dear fellow, I have been thinking about you,” | |
said Prince Andrew when they had gone into the large room where the | |
clavichord was. “It’s no use your going to the commander in chief. | |
He would say a lot of pleasant things, ask you to dinner” (“That | |
would not be bad as regards the unwritten code,” thought Borís), | |
“but nothing more would come of it. There will soon be a battalion of | |
us aides-de-camp and adjutants! But this is what we’ll do: I have | |
a good friend, an adjutant general and an excellent fellow, Prince | |
Dolgorúkov; and though you may not know it, the fact is that now | |
Kutúzov with his staff and all of us count for nothing. Everything is | |
now centered round the Emperor. So we will go to Dolgorúkov; I have to | |
go there anyhow and I have already spoken to him about you. We shall | |
see whether he cannot attach you to himself or find a place for you | |
somewhere nearer the sun.” | |
Prince Andrew always became specially keen when he had to guide a young | |
man and help him to worldly success. Under cover of obtaining help | |
of this kind for another, which from pride he would never accept for | |
himself, he kept in touch with the circle which confers success and | |
which attracted him. He very readily took up Borís’ cause and went | |
with him to Dolgorúkov. | |
It was late in the evening when they entered the palace at Olmütz | |
occupied by the Emperors and their retinues. | |
That same day a council of war had been held in which all the members of | |
the Hofkriegsrath and both Emperors took part. At that council, contrary | |
to the views of the old generals Kutúzov and Prince Schwartzenberg, it | |
had been decided to advance immediately and give battle to Bonaparte. | |
The council of war was just over when Prince Andrew accompanied | |
by Borís arrived at the palace to find Dolgorúkov. Everyone at | |
headquarters was still under the spell of the day’s council, at which | |
the party of the young had triumphed. The voices of those who counseled | |
delay and advised waiting for something else before advancing had been | |
so completely silenced and their arguments confuted by such conclusive | |
evidence of the advantages of attacking that what had been discussed | |
at the council—the coming battle and the victory that would certainly | |
result from it—no longer seemed to be in the future but in the past. | |
All the advantages were on our side. Our enormous forces, undoubtedly | |
superior to Napoleon’s, were concentrated in one place, the troops | |
inspired by the Emperors’ presence were eager for action. The | |
strategic position where the operations would take place was familiar in | |
all its details to the Austrian General Weyrother: a lucky accident had | |
ordained that the Austrian army should maneuver the previous year on the | |
very fields where the French had now to be fought; the adjacent | |
locality was known and shown in every detail on the maps, and Bonaparte, | |
evidently weakened, was undertaking nothing. | |
Dolgorúkov, one of the warmest advocates of an attack, had just | |
returned from the council, tired and exhausted but eager and proud | |
of the victory that had been gained. Prince Andrew introduced his | |
protégé, but Prince Dolgorúkov politely and firmly pressing his hand | |
said nothing to Borís and, evidently unable to suppress the thoughts | |
which were uppermost in his mind at that moment, addressed Prince Andrew | |
in French. | |
“Ah, my dear fellow, what a battle we have gained! God grant that | |
the one that will result from it will be as victorious! However, dear | |
fellow,” he said abruptly and eagerly, “I must confess to having | |
been unjust to the Austrians and especially to Weyrother. What | |
exactitude, what minuteness, what knowledge of the locality, what | |
foresight for every eventuality, every possibility even to the smallest | |
detail! No, my dear fellow, no conditions better than our present ones | |
could have been devised. This combination of Austrian precision with | |
Russian valor—what more could be wished for?” | |
“So the attack is definitely resolved on?” asked Bolkónski. | |
“And do you know, my dear fellow, it seems to me that Bonaparte has | |
decidedly lost bearings, you know that a letter was received from him | |
today for the Emperor.” Dolgorúkov smiled significantly. | |
“Is that so? And what did he say?” inquired Bolkónski. | |
“What can he say? Tra-di-ri-di-ra and so on... merely to gain time. | |
I tell you he is in our hands, that’s certain! But what was most | |
amusing,” he continued, with a sudden, good-natured laugh, “was that | |
we could not think how to address the reply! If not as ‘Consul’ | |
and of course not as ‘Emperor,’ it seemed to me it should be to | |
‘General Bonaparte.’” | |
“But between not recognizing him as Emperor and calling him General | |
Bonaparte, there is a difference,” remarked Bolkónski. | |
“That’s just it,” interrupted Dolgorúkov quickly, laughing. | |
“You know Bilíbin—he’s a very clever fellow. He suggested | |
addressing him as ‘Usurper and Enemy of Mankind.’” | |
Dolgorúkov laughed merrily. | |
“Only that?” said Bolkónski. | |
“All the same, it was Bilíbin who found a suitable form for the | |
address. He is a wise and clever fellow.” | |
“What was it?” | |
“To the Head of the French Government... Au chef du gouvernement | |
français,” said Dolgorúkov, with grave satisfaction. “Good, | |
wasn’t it?” | |
“Yes, but he will dislike it extremely,” said Bolkónski. | |
“Oh yes, very much! My brother knows him, he’s dined with him—the | |
present Emperor—more than once in Paris, and tells me he never met a | |
more cunning or subtle diplomatist—you know, a combination of French | |
adroitness and Italian play-acting! Do you know the tale about him and | |
Count Markóv? Count Markóv was the only man who knew how to handle | |
him. You know the story of the handkerchief? It is delightful!” | |
And the talkative Dolgorúkov, turning now to Borís, now to Prince | |
Andrew, told how Bonaparte wishing to test Markóv, our ambassador, | |
purposely dropped a handkerchief in front of him and stood looking | |
at Markóv, probably expecting Markóv to pick it up for him, and how | |
Markóv immediately dropped his own beside it and picked it up without | |
touching Bonaparte’s. | |
“Delightful!” said Bolkónski. “But I have come to you, Prince, | |
as a petitioner on behalf of this young man. You see...” but | |
before Prince Andrew could finish, an aide-de-camp came in to summon | |
Dolgorúkov to the Emperor. | |
“Oh, what a nuisance,” said Dolgorúkov, getting up hurriedly and | |
pressing the hands of Prince Andrew and Borís. “You know I should | |
be very glad to do all in my power both for you and for this dear young | |
man.” Again he pressed the hand of the latter with an expression of | |
good-natured, sincere, and animated levity. “But you see... another | |
time!” | |
Borís was excited by the thought of being so close to the higher powers | |
as he felt himself to be at that moment. He was conscious that here | |
he was in contact with the springs that set in motion the enormous | |
movements of the mass of which in his regiment he felt himself a tiny, | |
obedient, and insignificant atom. They followed Prince Dolgorúkov out | |
into the corridor and met—coming out of the door of the Emperor’s | |
room by which Dolgorúkov had entered—a short man in civilian clothes | |
with a clever face and sharply projecting jaw which, without spoiling | |
his face, gave him a peculiar vivacity and shiftiness of expression. | |
This short man nodded to Dolgorúkov as to an intimate friend and stared | |
at Prince Andrew with cool intensity, walking straight toward him and | |
evidently expecting him to bow or to step out of his way. Prince Andrew | |
did neither: a look of animosity appeared on his face and the other | |
turned away and went down the side of the corridor. | |
“Who was that?” asked Borís. | |
“He is one of the most remarkable, but to me most unpleasant of | |
men—the Minister of Foreign Affairs, Prince Adam Czartorýski.... It | |
is such men as he who decide the fate of nations,” added Bolkónski | |
with a sigh he could not suppress, as they passed out of the palace. | |
Next day, the army began its campaign, and up to the very battle of | |
Austerlitz, Borís was unable to see either Prince Andrew or Dolgorúkov | |
again and remained for a while with the Ismáylov regiment. | |
CHAPTER X | |
At dawn on the sixteenth of November, Denísov’s squadron, in | |
which Nicholas Rostóv served and which was in Prince Bagratión’s | |
detachment, moved from the place where it had spent the night, advancing | |
into action as arranged, and after going behind other columns for | |
about two thirds of a mile was stopped on the highroad. Rostóv saw the | |
Cossacks and then the first and second squadrons of hussars and infantry | |
battalions and artillery pass by and go forward and then Generals | |
Bagratión and Dolgorúkov ride past with their adjutants. All the fear | |
before action which he had experienced as previously, all the inner | |
struggle to conquer that fear, all his dreams of distinguishing himself | |
as a true hussar in this battle, had been wasted. Their squadron | |
remained in reserve and Nicholas Rostóv spent that day in a dull and | |
wretched mood. At nine in the morning, he heard firing in front and | |
shouts of hurrah, and saw wounded being brought back (there were not | |
many of them), and at last he saw how a whole detachment of French | |
cavalry was brought in, convoyed by a sótnya of Cossacks. Evidently the | |
affair was over and, though not big, had been a successful engagement. | |
The men and officers returning spoke of a brilliant victory, of the | |
occupation of the town of Wischau and the capture of a whole French | |
squadron. The day was bright and sunny after a sharp night frost, and | |
the cheerful glitter of that autumn day was in keeping with the news of | |
victory which was conveyed, not only by the tales of those who had taken | |
part in it, but also by the joyful expression on the faces of soldiers, | |
officers, generals, and adjutants, as they passed Rostóv going or | |
coming. And Nicholas, who had vainly suffered all the dread that | |
precedes a battle and had spent that happy day in inactivity, was all | |
the more depressed. | |
“Come here, Wostóv. Let’s dwink to dwown our gwief!” shouted | |
Denísov, who had settled down by the roadside with a flask and some | |
food. | |
The officers gathered round Denísov’s canteen, eating and talking. | |
“There! They are bringing another!” cried one of the officers, | |
indicating a captive French dragoon who was being brought in on foot by | |
two Cossacks. | |
One of them was leading by the bridle a fine large French horse he had | |
taken from the prisoner. | |
“Sell us that horse!” Denísov called out to the Cossacks. | |
“If you like, your honor!” | |
The officers got up and stood round the Cossacks and their prisoner. | |
The French dragoon was a young Alsatian who spoke French with a German | |
accent. He was breathless with agitation, his face was red, and when | |
he heard some French spoken he at once began speaking to the officers, | |
addressing first one, then another. He said he would not have been | |
taken, it was not his fault but the corporal’s who had sent him to | |
seize some horsecloths, though he had told him the Russians were there. | |
And at every word he added: “But don’t hurt my little horse!” and | |
stroked the animal. It was plain that he did not quite grasp where he | |
was. Now he excused himself for having been taken prisoner and now, | |
imagining himself before his own officers, insisted on his soldierly | |
discipline and zeal in the service. He brought with him into our | |
rearguard all the freshness of atmosphere of the French army, which was | |
so alien to us. | |
The Cossacks sold the horse for two gold pieces, and Rostóv, being the | |
richest of the officers now that he had received his money, bought it. | |
“But don’t hurt my little horse!” said the Alsatian good-naturedly | |
to Rostóv when the animal was handed over to the hussar. | |
Rostóv smilingly reassured the dragoon and gave him money. | |
“Alley! Alley!” said the Cossack, touching the prisoner’s arm to | |
make him go on. | |
“The Emperor! The Emperor!” was suddenly heard among the hussars. | |
All began to run and bustle, and Rostóv saw coming up the road behind | |
him several riders with white plumes in their hats. In a moment everyone | |
was in his place, waiting. | |
Rostóv did not know or remember how he ran to his place and mounted. | |
Instantly his regret at not having been in action and his dejected mood | |
amid people of whom he was weary had gone, instantly every thought of | |
himself had vanished. He was filled with happiness at his nearness to | |
the Emperor. He felt that this nearness by itself made up to him for the | |
day he had lost. He was happy as a lover when the longed-for moment of | |
meeting arrives. Not daring to look round and without looking round, he | |
was ecstatically conscious of his approach. He felt it not only from the | |
sound of the hoofs of the approaching cavalcade, but because as he drew | |
near everything grew brighter, more joyful, more significant, and more | |
festive around him. Nearer and nearer to Rostóv came that sun shedding | |
beams of mild and majestic light around, and already he felt himself | |
enveloped in those beams, he heard his voice, that kindly, calm, | |
and majestic voice that was yet so simple! And as if in accord with | |
Rostóv’s feeling, there was a deathly stillness amid which was heard | |
the Emperor’s voice. | |
“The Pávlograd hussars?” he inquired. | |
“The reserves, sire!” replied a voice, a very human one compared to | |
that which had said: “The Pávlograd hussars?” | |
The Emperor drew level with Rostóv and halted. Alexander’s face was | |
even more beautiful than it had been three days before at the review. It | |
shone with such gaiety and youth, such innocent youth, that it suggested | |
the liveliness of a fourteen-year-old boy, and yet it was the face | |
of the majestic Emperor. Casually, while surveying the squadron, the | |
Emperor’s eyes met Rostóv’s and rested on them for not more than | |
two seconds. Whether or no the Emperor understood what was going on in | |
Rostóv’s soul (it seemed to Rostóv that he understood everything), | |
at any rate his light-blue eyes gazed for about two seconds into | |
Rostóv’s face. A gentle, mild light poured from them. Then all at | |
once he raised his eyebrows, abruptly touched his horse with his left | |
foot, and galloped on. | |
The younger Emperor could not restrain his wish to be present at the | |
battle and, in spite of the remonstrances of his courtiers, at twelve | |
o’clock left the third column with which he had been and galloped | |
toward the vanguard. Before he came up with the hussars, several | |
adjutants met him with news of the successful result of the action. | |
This battle, which consisted in the capture of a French squadron, was | |
represented as a brilliant victory over the French, and so the | |
Emperor and the whole army, especially while the smoke hung over | |
the battlefield, believed that the French had been defeated and were | |
retreating against their will. A few minutes after the Emperor had | |
passed, the Pávlograd division was ordered to advance. In Wischau | |
itself, a petty German town, Rostóv saw the Emperor again. In the | |
market place, where there had been some rather heavy firing before the | |
Emperor’s arrival, lay several killed and wounded soldiers whom there | |
had not been time to move. The Emperor, surrounded by his suite | |
of officers and courtiers, was riding a bobtailed chestnut mare, a | |
different one from that which he had ridden at the review, and bending | |
to one side he gracefully held a gold lorgnette to his eyes and looked | |
at a soldier who lay prone, with blood on his uncovered head. The | |
wounded soldier was so dirty, coarse, and revolting that his proximity | |
to the Emperor shocked Rostóv. Rostóv saw how the Emperor’s rather | |
round shoulders shuddered as if a cold shiver had run down them, how his | |
left foot began convulsively tapping the horse’s side with the spur, | |
and how the well-trained horse looked round unconcerned and did not | |
stir. An adjutant, dismounting, lifted the soldier under the arms to | |
place him on a stretcher that had been brought. The soldier groaned. | |
“Gently, gently! Can’t you do it more gently?” said the Emperor | |
apparently suffering more than the dying soldier, and he rode away. | |
Rostóv saw tears filling the Emperor’s eyes and heard him, as he was | |
riding away, say to Czartorýski: “What a terrible thing war is: what | |
a terrible thing! Quelle terrible chose que la guerre!” | |
The troops of the vanguard were stationed before Wischau, within sight | |
of the enemy’s lines, which all day long had yielded ground to us | |
at the least firing. The Emperor’s gratitude was announced to the | |
vanguard, rewards were promised, and the men received a double ration of | |
vodka. The campfires crackled and the soldiers’ songs resounded | |
even more merrily than on the previous night. Denísov celebrated his | |
promotion to the rank of major, and Rostóv, who had already drunk | |
enough, at the end of the feast proposed the Emperor’s health. “Not | |
‘our Sovereign, the Emperor,’ as they say at official dinners,” | |
said he, “but the health of our Sovereign, that good, enchanting, and | |
great man! Let us drink to his health and to the certain defeat of the | |
French!” | |
“If we fought before,” he said, “not letting the French pass, as | |
at Schön Grabern, what shall we not do now when he is at the front? We | |
will all die for him gladly! Is it not so, gentlemen? Perhaps I am not | |
saying it right, I have drunk a good deal—but that is how I feel, and | |
so do you too! To the health of Alexander the First! Hurrah!” | |
“Hurrah!” rang the enthusiastic voices of the officers. | |
And the old cavalry captain, Kírsten, shouted enthusiastically and no | |
less sincerely than the twenty-year-old Rostóv. | |
When the officers had emptied and smashed their glasses, Kírsten filled | |
others and, in shirt sleeves and breeches, went glass in hand to the | |
soldiers’ bonfires and with his long gray mustache, his white chest | |
showing under his open shirt, he stood in a majestic pose in the light | |
of the campfire, waving his uplifted arm. | |
“Lads! here’s to our Sovereign, the Emperor, and victory over | |
our enemies! Hurrah!” he exclaimed in his dashing, old, hussar’s | |
baritone. | |
The hussars crowded round and responded heartily with loud shouts. | |
Late that night, when all had separated, Denísov with his short hand | |
patted his favorite, Rostóv, on the shoulder. | |
“As there’s no one to fall in love with on campaign, he’s fallen | |
in love with the Tsar,” he said. | |
“Denísov, don’t make fun of it!” cried Rostóv. “It is such a | |
lofty, beautiful feeling, such a...” | |
“I believe it, I believe it, fwiend, and I share and appwove...” | |
“No, you don’t understand!” | |
And Rostóv got up and went wandering among the campfires, dreaming of | |
what happiness it would be to die—not in saving the Emperor’s life | |
(he did not even dare to dream of that), but simply to die before his | |
eyes. He really was in love with the Tsar and the glory of the Russian | |
arms and the hope of future triumph. And he was not the only man to | |
experience that feeling during those memorable days preceding the battle | |
of Austerlitz: nine tenths of the men in the Russian army were then in | |
love, though less ecstatically, with their Tsar and the glory of the | |
Russian arms. | |
CHAPTER XI | |
The next day the Emperor stopped at Wischau, and Villier, his physician, | |
was repeatedly summoned to see him. At headquarters and among the troops | |
near by the news spread that the Emperor was unwell. He ate nothing and | |
had slept badly that night, those around him reported. The cause of this | |
indisposition was the strong impression made on his sensitive mind by | |
the sight of the killed and wounded. | |
At daybreak on the seventeenth, a French officer who had come with | |
a flag of truce, demanding an audience with the Russian Emperor, was | |
brought into Wischau from our outposts. This officer was Savary. The | |
Emperor had only just fallen asleep and so Savary had to wait. At midday | |
he was admitted to the Emperor, and an hour later he rode off with | |
Prince Dolgorúkov to the advanced post of the French army. | |
It was rumored that Savary had been sent to propose to Alexander | |
a meeting with Napoleon. To the joy and pride of the whole army, a | |
personal interview was refused, and instead of the Sovereign, Prince | |
Dolgorúkov, the victor at Wischau, was sent with Savary to negotiate | |
with Napoleon if, contrary to expectations, these negotiations were | |
actuated by a real desire for peace. | |
Toward evening Dolgorúkov came back, went straight to the Tsar, and | |
remained alone with him for a long time. | |
On the eighteenth and nineteenth of November, the army advanced two | |
days’ march and the enemy’s outposts after a brief interchange | |
of shots retreated. In the highest army circles from midday on the | |
nineteenth, a great, excitedly bustling activity began which lasted till | |
the morning of the twentieth, when the memorable battle of Austerlitz | |
was fought. | |
Till midday on the nineteenth, the activity—the eager talk, running to | |
and fro, and dispatching of adjutants—was confined to the Emperor’s | |
headquarters. But on the afternoon of that day, this activity reached | |
Kutúzov’s headquarters and the staffs of the commanders of columns. | |
By evening, the adjutants had spread it to all ends and parts of the | |
army, and in the night from the nineteenth to the twentieth, the whole | |
eighty thousand allied troops rose from their bivouacs to the hum of | |
voices, and the army swayed and started in one enormous mass six miles | |
long. | |
The concentrated activity which had begun at the Emperor’s | |
headquarters in the morning and had started the whole movement that | |
followed was like the first movement of the main wheel of a large tower | |
clock. One wheel slowly moved, another was set in motion, and a third, | |
and wheels began to revolve faster and faster, levers and cogwheels to | |
work, chimes to play, figures to pop out, and the hands to advance with | |
regular motion as a result of all that activity. | |
Just as in the mechanism of a clock, so in the mechanism of the military | |
machine, an impulse once given leads to the final result; and just as | |
indifferently quiescent till the moment when motion is transmitted | |
to them are the parts of the mechanism which the impulse has not yet | |
reached. Wheels creak on their axles as the cogs engage one another and | |
the revolving pulleys whirr with the rapidity of their movement, but a | |
neighboring wheel is as quiet and motionless as though it were prepared | |
to remain so for a hundred years; but the moment comes when the lever | |
catches it and obeying the impulse that wheel begins to creak and joins | |
in the common motion the result and aim of which are beyond its ken. | |
Just as in a clock, the result of the complicated motion of innumerable | |
wheels and pulleys is merely a slow and regular movement of the | |
hands which show the time, so the result of all the complicated human | |
activities of 160,000 Russians and French—all their passions, desires, | |
remorse, humiliations, sufferings, outbursts of pride, fear, and | |
enthusiasm—was only the loss of the battle of Austerlitz, the | |
so-called battle of the three Emperors—that is to say, a slow movement | |
of the hand on the dial of human history. | |
Prince Andrew was on duty that day and in constant attendance on the | |
commander in chief. | |
At six in the evening, Kutúzov 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 Tolstóy. | |
Bolkónski took the opportunity to go in to get some details of the | |
coming action from Dolgorúkov. He felt that Kutúzov was upset | |
and dissatisfied about something and that at headquarters they were | |
dissatisfied with him, and also that at the Emperor’s headquarters | |
everyone adopted toward him the tone of men who know something others do | |
not know: he therefore wished to speak to Dolgorúkov. | |
“Well, how d’you do, my dear fellow?” said Dolgorúkov, who was | |
sitting at tea with Bilíbin. “The fete is for tomorrow. How is your | |
old fellow? Out of sorts?” | |
“I won’t say he is out of sorts, but I fancy he would like to be | |
heard.” | |
“But they heard him at the council of war and will hear him when he | |
talks sense, but to temporize and wait for something now when Bonaparte | |
fears nothing so much as a general battle is impossible.” | |
“Yes, you have seen him?” said Prince Andrew. “Well, what is | |
Bonaparte like? How did he impress you?” | |
“Yes, I saw him, and am convinced that he fears nothing so much as | |
a general engagement,” repeated Dolgorúkov, evidently prizing this | |
general conclusion which he had arrived at from his interview with | |
Napoleon. “If he weren’t afraid of a battle why did he ask for that | |
interview? Why negotiate, and above all why retreat, when to retreat is | |
so contrary to his method of conducting war? Believe me, he is afraid, | |
afraid of a general battle. His hour has come! Mark my words!” | |
“But tell me, what is he like, eh?” said Prince Andrew again. | |
“He is a man in a gray overcoat, very anxious that I should call | |
him ‘Your Majesty,’ but who, to his chagrin, got no title from | |
me! That’s the sort of man he is, and nothing more,” replied | |
Dolgorúkov, looking round at Bilíbin with a smile. | |
“Despite my great respect for old Kutúzov,” he continued, “we | |
should be a nice set of fellows if we were to wait about and so give him | |
a chance to escape, or to trick us, now that we certainly have him in | |
our hands! No, we mustn’t forget Suvórov and his rule—not to put | |
yourself in a position to be attacked, but yourself to attack. Believe | |
me in war the energy of young men often shows the way better than all | |
the experience of old Cunctators.” | |
“But in what position are we going to attack him? I have been at the | |
outposts today and it is impossible to say where his chief forces are | |
situated,” said Prince Andrew. | |
He wished to explain to Dolgorúkov a plan of attack he had himself | |
formed. | |
“Oh, that is all the same,” Dolgorúkov said quickly, and getting up | |
he spread a map on the table. “All eventualities have been foreseen. | |
If he is standing before Brünn...” | |
And Prince Dolgorúkov rapidly but indistinctly explained Weyrother’s | |
plan of a flanking movement. | |
Prince Andrew began to reply and to state his own plan, which might | |
have been as good as Weyrother’s, but for the disadvantage that | |
Weyrother’s had already been approved. As soon as Prince Andrew began | |
to demonstrate the defects of the latter and the merits of his own plan, | |
Prince Dolgorúkov ceased to listen to him and gazed absent-mindedly not | |
at the map, but at Prince Andrew’s face. | |
“There will be a council of war at Kutúzov’s tonight, though; you | |
can say all this there,” remarked Dolgorúkov. | |
“I will do so,” said Prince Andrew, moving away from the map. | |
“Whatever are you bothering about, gentlemen?” said Bilíbin, who, | |
till then, had listened with an amused smile to their conversation and | |
now was evidently ready with a joke. “Whether tomorrow brings | |
victory or defeat, the glory of our Russian arms is secure. Except your | |
Kutúzov, there is not a single Russian in command of a column! The | |
commanders are: Herr General Wimpfen, le Comte de Langeron, le Prince de | |
Lichtenstein, le Prince, de Hohenlohe, and finally Prishprish, and so on | |
like all those Polish names.” | |
“Be quiet, backbiter!” said Dolgorúkov. “It is not true; there | |
are now two Russians, Milorádovich, and Dokhtúrov, and there would be | |
a third, Count Arakchéev, if his nerves were not too weak.” | |
“However, I think General Kutúzov has come out,” said Prince | |
Andrew. “I wish you good luck and success, gentlemen!” he added and | |
went out after shaking hands with Dolgorúkov and Bilíbin. | |
On the way home, Prince Andrew could not refrain from asking Kutúzov, | |
who was sitting silently beside him, what he thought of tomorrow’s | |
battle. | |
Kutúzov looked sternly at his adjutant and, after a pause, replied: | |
“I think the battle will be lost, and so I told Count Tolstóy and | |
asked him to tell the Emperor. What do you think he replied? ‘But, my | |
dear general, I am engaged with rice and cutlets, look after military | |
matters yourself!’ Yes... That was the answer I got!” | |
CHAPTER XII | |
Shortly after nine o’clock that evening, Weyrother drove with his | |
plans to Kutúzov’s quarters where the council of war was to be | |
held. All the commanders of columns were summoned to the commander in | |
chief’s and with the exception of Prince Bagratión, who declined to | |
come, were all there at the appointed time. | |
Weyrother, who was in full control of the proposed battle, by his | |
eagerness and briskness presented a marked contrast to the dissatisfied | |
and drowsy Kutúzov, who reluctantly played the part of chairman and | |
president of the council of war. Weyrother evidently felt himself to be | |
at the head of a movement that had already become unrestrainable. He was | |
like a horse running downhill harnessed to a heavy cart. Whether he was | |
pulling it or being pushed by it he did not know, but rushed along at | |
headlong speed with no time to consider what this movement might lead | |
to. Weyrother had been twice that evening to the enemy’s picket | |
line to reconnoiter personally, and twice to the Emperors, Russian and | |
Austrian, to report and explain, and to his headquarters where he had | |
dictated the dispositions in German, and now, much exhausted, he arrived | |
at Kutúzov’s. | |
He was evidently so busy that he even forgot to be polite to the | |
commander in chief. He interrupted him, talked rapidly and indistinctly, | |
without looking at the man he was addressing, and did not reply to | |
questions put to him. He was bespattered with mud and had a pitiful, | |
weary, and distracted air, though at the same time he was haughty and | |
self-confident. | |
Kutúzov was occupying a nobleman’s castle of modest dimensions near | |
Ostralitz. In the large drawing room which had become the commander | |
in chief’s office were gathered Kutúzov himself, Weyrother, and the | |
members of the council of war. They were drinking tea, and only awaited | |
Prince Bagratión to begin the council. At last Bagratión’s orderly | |
came with the news that the prince could not attend. Prince Andrew came | |
in to inform the commander in chief of this and, availing himself | |
of permission previously given him by Kutúzov to be present at the | |
council, he remained in the room. | |
“Since Prince Bagratión is not coming, we may begin,” said | |
Weyrother, hurriedly rising from his seat and going up to the table on | |
which an enormous map of the environs of Brünn was spread out. | |
Kutúzov, with his uniform unbuttoned so that his fat neck bulged over | |
his collar as if escaping, was sitting almost asleep in a low chair, | |
with his podgy old hands resting symmetrically on its arms. At the sound | |
of Weyrother’s voice, he opened his one eye with an effort. | |
“Yes, yes, if you please! It is already late,” said he, and nodding | |
his head he let it droop and again closed his eye. | |
If at first the members of the council thought that Kutúzov was | |
pretending to sleep, the sounds his nose emitted during the reading that | |
followed proved that the commander in chief at that moment was absorbed | |
by a far more serious matter than a desire to show his contempt for | |
the dispositions or anything else—he was engaged in satisfying the | |
irresistible human need for sleep. He really was asleep. Weyrother, with | |
the gesture of a man too busy to lose a moment, glanced at Kutúzov and, | |
having convinced himself that he was asleep, took up a paper and in | |
a loud, monotonous voice began to read out the dispositions for the | |
impending battle, under a heading which he also read out: | |
“Dispositions for an attack on the enemy position behind Kobelnitz and | |
Sokolnitz, November 30, 1805.” | |
The dispositions were very complicated and difficult. They began as | |
follows: | |
“As the enemy’s left wing rests on wooded hills and his right | |
extends along Kobelnitz and Sokolnitz behind the ponds that are there, | |
while we, on the other hand, with our left wing by far outflank his | |
right, it is advantageous to attack the enemy’s latter wing especially | |
if we occupy the villages of Sokolnitz and Kobelnitz, whereby we | |
can both fall on his flank and pursue him over the plain between | |
Schlappanitz and the Thuerassa forest, avoiding the defiles of | |
Schlappanitz and Bellowitz which cover the enemy’s front. For this | |
object it is necessary that... The first column marches... The second | |
column marches... The third column marches...” and so on, read | |
Weyrother. | |
The generals seemed to listen reluctantly to the difficult dispositions. | |
The tall, fair-haired General Buxhöwden stood, leaning his back against | |
the wall, his eyes fixed on a burning candle, and seemed not to listen | |
or even to wish to be thought to listen. Exactly opposite Weyrother, | |
with his glistening wide-open eyes fixed upon him and his mustache | |
twisted upwards, sat the ruddy Milorádovich in a military pose, his | |
elbows turned outwards, his hands on his knees, and his shoulders | |
raised. He remained stubbornly silent, gazing at Weyrother’s face, | |
and only turned away his eyes when the Austrian chief of staff finished | |
reading. Then Milorádovich looked round significantly at the other | |
generals. But one could not tell from that significant look whether he | |
agreed or disagreed and was satisfied or not with the arrangements. Next | |
to Weyrother sat Count Langeron who, with a subtle smile that never left | |
his typically southern French face during the whole time of the reading, | |
gazed at his delicate fingers which rapidly twirled by its corners | |
a gold snuffbox on which was a portrait. In the middle of one of the | |
longest sentences, he stopped the rotary motion of the snuffbox, raised | |
his head, and with inimical politeness lurking in the corners of his | |
thin lips interrupted Weyrother, wishing to say something. But the | |
Austrian general, continuing to read, frowned angrily and jerked his | |
elbows, as if to say: “You can tell me your views later, but now be so | |
good as to look at the map and listen.” Langeron lifted his eyes with | |
an expression of perplexity, turned round to Milorádovich as if seeking | |
an explanation, but meeting the latter’s impressive but meaningless | |
gaze drooped his eyes sadly and again took to twirling his snuffbox. | |
“A geography lesson!” he muttered as if to himself, but loud enough | |
to be heard. | |
Przebyszéwski, with respectful but dignified politeness, held his | |
hand to his ear toward Weyrother, with the air of a man absorbed in | |
attention. Dohktúrov, a little man, sat opposite Weyrother, with | |
an assiduous and modest mien, and stooping over the outspread map | |
conscientiously studied the dispositions and the unfamiliar locality. He | |
asked Weyrother several times to repeat words he had not clearly heard | |
and the difficult names of villages. Weyrother complied and Dohktúrov | |
noted them down. | |
When the reading which lasted more than an hour was over, Langeron again | |
brought his snuffbox to rest and, without looking at Weyrother or at | |
anyone in particular, began to say how difficult it was to carry out | |
such a plan in which the enemy’s position was assumed to be known, | |
whereas it was perhaps not known, since the enemy was in movement. | |
Langeron’s objections were valid but it was obvious that their chief | |
aim was to show General Weyrother—who had read his dispositions with | |
as much self-confidence as if he were addressing school children—that | |
he had to do, not with fools, but with men who could teach him something | |
in military matters. | |
When the monotonous sound of Weyrother’s voice ceased, Kutúzov opened | |
his eye as a miller wakes up when the soporific drone of the mill wheel | |
is interrupted. He listened to what Langeron said, as if remarking, | |
“So you are still at that silly business!” quickly closed his eye | |
again, and let his head sink still lower. | |
Langeron, trying as virulently as possible to sting Weyrother’s vanity | |
as author of the military plan, argued that Bonaparte might easily | |
attack instead of being attacked, and so render the whole of this | |
plan perfectly worthless. Weyrother met all objections with a firm and | |
contemptuous smile, evidently prepared beforehand to meet all objections | |
be they what they might. | |
“If he could attack us, he would have done so today,” said he. | |
“So you think he is powerless?” said Langeron. | |
“He has forty thousand men at most,” replied Weyrother, with the | |
smile of a doctor to whom an old wife wishes to explain the treatment of | |
a case. | |
“In that case he is inviting his doom by awaiting our attack,” said | |
Langeron, with a subtly ironical smile, again glancing round for support | |
to Milorádovich who was near him. | |
But Milorádovich was at that moment evidently thinking of anything | |
rather than of what the generals were disputing about. | |
“Ma foi!” said he, “tomorrow we shall see all that on the | |
battlefield.” | |
Weyrother again gave that smile which seemed to say that to him it was | |
strange and ridiculous to meet objections from Russian generals and to | |
have to prove to them what he had not merely convinced himself of, but | |
had also convinced the sovereign Emperors of. | |
“The enemy has quenched his fires and a continual noise is heard from | |
his camp,” said he. “What does that mean? Either he is retreating, | |
which is the only thing we need fear, or he is changing his position.” | |
(He smiled ironically.) “But even if he also took up a position in | |
the Thuerassa, he merely saves us a great deal of trouble and all our | |
arrangements to the minutest detail remain the same.” | |
“How is that?...” began Prince Andrew, who had for long been waiting | |
an opportunity to express his doubts. | |
Kutúzov here woke up, coughed heavily, and looked round at the | |
generals. | |
“Gentlemen, the dispositions for tomorrow—or rather for today, for | |
it is past midnight—cannot now be altered,” said he. “You have | |
heard them, and we shall all do our duty. But before a battle, there is | |
nothing more important...” he paused, “than to have a good sleep.” | |
He moved as if to rise. The generals bowed and retired. It was past | |
midnight. Prince Andrew went out. | |
The council of war, at which Prince Andrew had not been able to | |
express his opinion as he had hoped to, left on him a vague and uneasy | |
impression. Whether Dolgorúkov and Weyrother, or Kutúzov, Langeron, | |
and the others who did not approve of the plan of attack, were | |
right—he did not know. “But was it really not possible for Kutúzov | |
to state his views plainly to the Emperor? Is it possible that on | |
account of court and personal considerations tens of thousands of lives, | |
and my life, my life,” he thought, “must be risked?” | |
“Yes, it is very likely that I shall be killed tomorrow,” he | |
thought. And suddenly, at this thought of death, a whole series of most | |
distant, most intimate, memories rose in his imagination: he remembered | |
his last parting from his father and his wife; he remembered the days | |
when he first loved her. He thought of her pregnancy and felt sorry for | |
her and for himself, and in a nervously emotional and softened mood he | |
went out of the hut in which he was billeted with Nesvítski and began | |
to walk up and down before it. | |
The night was foggy and through the fog the moonlight gleamed | |
mysteriously. “Yes, tomorrow, tomorrow!” he thought. “Tomorrow | |
everything may be over for me! All these memories will be no more, none | |
of them will have any meaning for me. Tomorrow perhaps, even certainly, | |
I have a presentiment that for the first time I shall have to show all | |
I can do.” And his fancy pictured the battle, its loss, the | |
concentration of fighting at one point, and the hesitation of all the | |
commanders. And then that happy moment, that Toulon for which he had | |
so long waited, presents itself to him at last. He firmly and clearly | |
expresses his opinion to Kutúzov, to Weyrother, and to the Emperors. | |
All are struck by the justness of his views, but no one undertakes to | |
carry them out, so he takes a regiment, a division—stipulates that no | |
one is to interfere with his arrangements—leads his division to | |
the decisive point, and gains the victory alone. “But death and | |
suffering?” suggested another voice. Prince Andrew, however, did not | |
answer that voice and went on dreaming of his triumphs. The dispositions | |
for the next battle are planned by him alone. Nominally he is only an | |
adjutant on Kutúzov’s staff, but he does everything alone. The next | |
battle is won by him alone. Kutúzov is removed and he is appointed... | |
“Well and then?” asked the other voice. “If before that you are | |
not ten times wounded, killed, or betrayed, well... what then?...” | |
“Well then,” Prince Andrew answered himself, “I don’t know | |
what will happen and don’t want to know, and can’t, but if I want | |
this—want glory, want to be known to men, want to be loved by them, it | |
is not my fault that I want it and want nothing but that and live only | |
for that. Yes, for that alone! I shall never tell anyone, but, oh God! | |
what am I to do if I love nothing but fame and men’s esteem? Death, | |
wounds, the loss of family—I fear nothing. And precious and dear | |
as many persons are to me—father, sister, wife—those dearest to | |
me—yet dreadful and unnatural as it seems, I would give them all at | |
once for a moment of glory, of triumph over men, of love from men I | |
don’t know and never shall know, for the love of these men here,” he | |
thought, as he listened to voices in Kutúzov’s courtyard. The voices | |
were those of the orderlies who were packing up; one voice, probably a | |
coachman’s, was teasing Kutúzov’s old cook whom Prince Andrew knew, | |
and who was called Tit. He was saying, “Tit, I say, Tit!” | |
“Well?” returned the old man. | |
“Go, Tit, thresh a bit!” said the wag. | |
“Oh, go to the devil!” called out a voice, drowned by the laughter | |
of the orderlies and servants. | |
“All the same, I love and value nothing but triumph over them all, I | |
value this mystic power and glory that is floating here above me in this | |
mist!” | |
CHAPTER XIII | |
That same night, Rostóv was with a platoon on skirmishing duty in front | |
of Bagratión’s detachment. His hussars were placed along the line | |
in couples and he himself rode along the line trying to master the | |
sleepiness that kept coming over him. An enormous space, with our | |
army’s campfires dimly glowing in the fog, could be seen behind him; | |
in front of him was misty darkness. Rostóv could see nothing, peer as | |
he would into that foggy distance: now something gleamed gray, now there | |
was something black, now little lights seemed to glimmer where the enemy | |
ought to be, now he fancied it was only something in his own eyes. His | |
eyes kept closing, and in his fancy appeared—now the Emperor, now | |
Denísov, and now Moscow memories—and he again hurriedly opened his | |
eyes and saw close before him the head and ears of the horse he was | |
riding, and sometimes, when he came within six paces of them, the | |
black figures of hussars, but in the distance was still the same misty | |
darkness. “Why not?... It might easily happen,” thought Rostóv, | |
“that the Emperor will meet me and give me an order as he would to any | |
other officer; he’ll say: ‘Go and find out what’s there.’ There | |
are many stories of his getting to know an officer in just such a chance | |
way and attaching him to himself! What if he gave me a place near him? | |
Oh, how I would guard him, how I would tell him the truth, how I would | |
unmask his deceivers!” And in order to realize vividly his love | |
devotion to the sovereign, Rostóv pictured to himself an enemy or a | |
deceitful German, whom he would not only kill with pleasure but whom | |
he would slap in the face before the Emperor. Suddenly a distant shout | |
aroused him. He started and opened his eyes. | |
“Where am I? Oh yes, in the skirmishing line... pass and | |
watchword—shaft, Olmütz. What a nuisance that our squadron will be in | |
reserve tomorrow,” he thought. “I’ll ask leave to go to the front, | |
this may be my only chance of seeing the Emperor. It won’t be long | |
now before I am off duty. I’ll take another turn and when I get back | |
I’ll go to the general and ask him.” He readjusted himself in the | |
saddle and touched up his horse to ride once more round his hussars. It | |
seemed to him that it was getting lighter. To the left he saw a sloping | |
descent lit up, and facing it a black knoll that seemed as steep as a | |
wall. On this knoll there was a white patch that Rostóv could not at | |
all make out: was it a glade in the wood lit up by the moon, or some | |
unmelted snow, or some white houses? He even thought something moved on | |
that white spot. “I expect it’s snow... that spot... a spot—une | |
tache,” he thought. “There now... it’s not a tache... Natásha... | |
sister, black eyes... Na... tasha... (Won’t she be surprised when | |
I tell her how I’ve seen the Emperor?) Natásha... take my | |
sabretache...”—“Keep to the right, your honor, there are bushes | |
here,” came the voice of an hussar, past whom Rostóv was riding in | |
the act of falling asleep. Rostóv lifted his head that had sunk almost | |
to his horse’s mane and pulled up beside the hussar. He was succumbing | |
to irresistible, youthful, childish drowsiness. “But what was I | |
thinking? I mustn’t forget. How shall I speak to the Emperor? No, | |
that’s not it—that’s tomorrow. Oh yes! Natásha... sabretache... | |
saber them... Whom? The hussars... Ah, the hussars with mustaches. Along | |
the Tverskáya Street rode the hussar with mustaches... I thought about | |
him too, just opposite Gúryev’s house... Old Gúryev.... Oh, but | |
Denísov’s a fine fellow. But that’s all nonsense. The chief thing | |
is that the Emperor is here. How he looked at me and wished to say | |
something, but dared not.... No, it was I who dared not. But that’s | |
nonsense, the chief thing is not to forget the important thing I | |
was thinking of. Yes, Na-tásha, sabretache, oh, yes, yes! That’s | |
right!” And his head once more sank to his horse’s neck. All at once | |
it seemed to him that he was being fired at. “What? What? What?... Cut | |
them down! What?...” said Rostóv, waking up. At the moment he opened | |
his eyes he heard in front of him, where the enemy was, the long-drawn | |
shouts of thousands of voices. His horse and the horse of the hussar | |
near him pricked their ears at these shouts. Over there, where the | |
shouting came from, a fire flared up and went out again, then another, | |
and all along the French line on the hill fires flared up and the | |
shouting grew louder and louder. Rostóv could hear the sound of French | |
words but could not distinguish them. The din of many voices was too | |
great; all he could hear was: “ahahah!” and “rrrr!” | |
“What’s that? What do you make of it?” said Rostóv to the hussar | |
beside him. “That must be the enemy’s camp!” | |
The hussar did not reply. | |
“Why, don’t you hear it?” Rostóv asked again, after waiting for a | |
reply. | |
“Who can tell, your honor?” replied the hussar reluctantly. | |
“From the direction, it must be the enemy,” repeated Rostóv. | |
“It may be he or it may be nothing,” muttered the hussar. “It’s | |
dark... Steady!” he cried to his fidgeting horse. | |
Rostóv’s horse was also getting restive: it pawed the frozen ground, | |
pricking its ears at the noise and looking at the lights. The shouting | |
grew still louder and merged into a general roar that only an army | |
of several thousand men could produce. The lights spread farther and | |
farther, probably along the line of the French camp. Rostóv no longer | |
wanted to sleep. The gay triumphant shouting of the enemy army had a | |
stimulating effect on him. “Vive l’Empereur! l’Empereur!” he now | |
heard distinctly. | |
“They can’t be far off, probably just beyond the stream,” he said | |
to the hussar beside him. | |
The hussar only sighed without replying and coughed angrily. The sound | |
of horse’s hoofs approaching at a trot along the line of hussars was | |
heard, and out of the foggy darkness the figure of a sergeant of hussars | |
suddenly appeared, looming huge as an elephant. | |
“Your honor, the generals!” said the sergeant, riding up to Rostóv. | |
Rostóv, still looking round toward the fires and the shouts, rode with | |
the sergeant to meet some mounted men who were riding along the line. | |
One was on a white horse. Prince Bagratión and Prince Dolgorúkov with | |
their adjutants had come to witness the curious phenomenon of the | |
lights and shouts in the enemy’s camp. Rostóv rode up to Bagratión, | |
reported to him, and then joined the adjutants listening to what the | |
generals were saying. | |
“Believe me,” said Prince Dolgorúkov, addressing Bagratión, “it | |
is nothing but a trick! He has retreated and ordered the rearguard to | |
kindle fires and make a noise to deceive us.” | |
“Hardly,” said Bagratión. “I saw them this evening on that | |
knoll; if they had retreated they would have withdrawn from that too.... | |
Officer!” said Bagratión to Rostóv, “are the enemy’s skirmishers | |
still there?” | |
“They were there this evening, but now I don’t know, your | |
excellency. Shall I go with some of my hussars to see?” replied | |
Rostóv. | |
Bagratión stopped and, before replying, tried to see Rostóv’s face | |
in the mist. | |
“Well, go and see,” he said, after a pause. | |
“Yes, sir.” | |
Rostóv spurred his horse, called to Sergeant Fédchenko and two other | |
hussars, told them to follow him, and trotted downhill in the direction | |
from which the shouting came. He felt both frightened and pleased to be | |
riding alone with three hussars into that mysterious and dangerous misty | |
distance where no one had been before him. Bagratión called to him from | |
the hill not to go beyond the stream, but Rostóv pretended not to hear | |
him and did not stop but rode on and on, continually mistaking bushes | |
for trees and gullies for men and continually discovering his mistakes. | |
Having descended the hill at a trot, he no longer saw either our own or | |
the enemy’s fires, but heard the shouting of the French more loudly | |
and distinctly. In the valley he saw before him something like a river, | |
but when he reached it he found it was a road. Having come out onto | |
the road he reined in his horse, hesitating whether to ride along it or | |
cross it and ride over the black field up the hillside. To keep to the | |
road which gleamed white in the mist would have been safer because it | |
would be easier to see people coming along it. “Follow me!” said he, | |
crossed the road, and began riding up the hill at a gallop toward the | |
point where the French pickets had been standing that evening. | |
“Your honor, there he is!” cried one of the hussars behind him. And | |
before Rostóv had time to make out what the black thing was that had | |
suddenly appeared in the fog, there was a flash, followed by a report, | |
and a bullet whizzing high up in the mist with a plaintive sound passed | |
out of hearing. Another musket missed fire but flashed in the pan. | |
Rostóv turned his horse and galloped back. Four more reports followed | |
at intervals, and the bullets passed somewhere in the fog singing in | |
different tones. Rostóv reined in his horse, whose spirits had risen, | |
like his own, at the firing, and went back at a footpace. “Well, some | |
more! Some more!” a merry voice was saying in his soul. But no more | |
shots came. | |
Only when approaching Bagratión did Rostóv let his horse gallop again, | |
and with his hand at the salute rode up to the general. | |
Dolgorúkov was still insisting that the French had retreated and had | |
only lit fires to deceive us. | |
“What does that prove?” he was saying as Rostóv rode up. “They | |
might retreat and leave the pickets.” | |
“It’s plain that they have not all gone yet, Prince,” said | |
Bagratión. “Wait till tomorrow morning, we’ll find out everything | |
tomorrow.” | |
“The picket is still on the hill, your excellency, just where it was | |
in the evening,” reported Rostóv, stooping forward with his hand at | |
the salute and unable to repress the smile of delight induced by his | |
ride and especially by the sound of the bullets. | |
“Very good, very good,” said Bagratión. “Thank you, officer.” | |
“Your excellency,” said Rostóv, “may I ask a favor?” | |
“What is it?” | |
“Tomorrow our squadron is to be in reserve. May I ask to be attached | |
to the first squadron?” | |
“What’s your name?” | |
“Count Rostóv.” | |
“Oh, very well, you may stay in attendance on me.” | |
“Count Ilyá Rostóv’s son?” asked Dolgorúkov. | |
But Rostóv did not reply. | |
“Then I may reckon on it, your excellency?” | |
“I will give the order.” | |
“Tomorrow very likely I may be sent with some message to the | |
Emperor,” thought Rostóv. | |
“Thank God!” | |
The fires and shouting in the enemy’s army were occasioned by the fact | |
that while Napoleon’s proclamation was being read to the troops the | |
Emperor himself rode round his bivouacs. The soldiers, on seeing him, | |
lit wisps of straw and ran after him, shouting, “Vive l’Empereur!” | |
Napoleon’s proclamation was as follows: | |
Soldiers! The Russian army is advancing against you to avenge the | |
Austrian army of Ulm. They are the same battalions you broke at | |
Hollabrünn and have pursued ever since to this place. The position we | |
occupy is a strong one, and while they are marching to go round me on | |
the right they will expose a flank to me. Soldiers! I will myself direct | |
your battalions. I will keep out of fire if you with your habitual | |
valor carry disorder and confusion into the enemy’s ranks, but should | |
victory be in doubt, even for a moment, you will see your Emperor | |
exposing himself to the first blows of the enemy, for there must be no | |
doubt of victory, especially on this day when what is at stake is the | |
honor of the French infantry, so necessary to the honor of our nation. | |
Do not break your ranks on the plea of removing the wounded! Let every | |
man be fully imbued with the thought that we must defeat these hirelings | |
of England, inspired by such hatred of our nation! This victory will | |
conclude our campaign and we can return to winter quarters, where fresh | |
French troops who are being raised in France will join us, and the peace | |
I shall conclude will be worthy of my people, of you, and of myself. | |
NAPOLEON | |
CHAPTER XIV | |
At five in the morning it was still quite dark. The troops of the | |
center, the reserves, and Bagratión’s right flank had not yet moved, | |
but on the left flank the columns of infantry, cavalry, and artillery, | |
which were to be the first to descend the heights to attack the French | |
right flank and drive it into the Bohemian mountains according to plan, | |
were already up and astir. The smoke of the campfires, into which they | |
were throwing everything superfluous, made the eyes smart. It was cold | |
and dark. The officers were hurriedly drinking tea and breakfasting, the | |
soldiers, munching biscuit and beating a tattoo with their feet to | |
warm themselves, gathering round the fires throwing into the flames the | |
remains of sheds, chairs, tables, wheels, tubs, and everything that they | |
did not want or could not carry away with them. Austrian column guides | |
were moving in and out among the Russian troops and served as heralds | |
of the advance. As soon as an Austrian officer showed himself near | |
a commanding officer’s quarters, the regiment began to move: the | |
soldiers ran from the fires, thrust their pipes into their boots, their | |
bags into the carts, got their muskets ready, and formed rank. The | |
officers buttoned up their coats, buckled on their swords and pouches, | |
and moved along the ranks shouting. The train drivers and orderlies | |
harnessed and packed the wagons and tied on the loads. The adjutants and | |
battalion and regimental commanders mounted, crossed themselves, gave | |
final instructions, orders, and commissions to the baggage men | |
who remained behind, and the monotonous tramp of thousands of feet | |
resounded. The column moved forward without knowing where and unable, | |
from the masses around them, the smoke and the increasing fog, to see | |
either the place they were leaving or that to which they were going. | |
A soldier on the march is hemmed in and borne along by his regiment as | |
much as a sailor is by his ship. However far he has walked, whatever | |
strange, unknown, and dangerous places he reaches, just as a sailor is | |
always surrounded by the same decks, masts, and rigging of his ship, so | |
the soldier always has around him the same comrades, the same ranks, the | |
same sergeant major Iván Mítrich, the same company dog Jack, and the | |
same commanders. The sailor rarely cares to know the latitude in which | |
his ship is sailing, but on the day of battle—heaven knows how and | |
whence—a stern note of which all are conscious sounds in the moral | |
atmosphere of an army, announcing the approach of something decisive | |
and solemn, and awakening in the men an unusual curiosity. On the day of | |
battle the soldiers excitedly try to get beyond the interests of their | |
regiment, they listen intently, look about, and eagerly ask concerning | |
what is going on around them. | |
The fog had grown so dense that though it was growing light they could | |
not see ten paces ahead. Bushes looked like gigantic trees and level | |
ground like cliffs and slopes. Anywhere, on any side, one might | |
encounter an enemy invisible ten paces off. But the columns advanced | |
for a long time, always in the same fog, descending and ascending hills, | |
avoiding gardens and enclosures, going over new and unknown ground, and | |
nowhere encountering the enemy. On the contrary, the soldiers became | |
aware that in front, behind, and on all sides, other Russian columns | |
were moving in the same direction. Every soldier felt glad to know that | |
to the unknown place where he was going, many more of our men were going | |
too. | |
“There now, the Kúrskies have also gone past,” was being said in | |
the ranks. | |
“It’s wonderful what a lot of our troops have gathered, lads! Last | |
night I looked at the campfires and there was no end of them. A regular | |
Moscow!” | |
Though none of the column commanders rode up to the ranks or talked to | |
the men (the commanders, as we saw at the council of war, were out of | |
humor and dissatisfied with the affair, and so did not exert themselves | |
to cheer the men but merely carried out the orders), yet the troops | |
marched gaily, as they always do when going into action, especially to | |
an attack. But when they had marched for about an hour in the dense fog, | |
the greater part of the men had to halt and an unpleasant consciousness | |
of some dislocation and blunder spread through the ranks. How such | |
a consciousness is communicated is very difficult to define, but it | |
certainly is communicated very surely, and flows rapidly, imperceptibly, | |
and irrepressibly, as water does in a creek. Had the Russian army been | |
alone without any allies, it might perhaps have been a long time before | |
this consciousness of mismanagement became a general conviction, but as | |
it was, the disorder was readily and naturally attributed to the stupid | |
Germans, and everyone was convinced that a dangerous muddle had been | |
occasioned by the sausage eaters. | |
“Why have we stopped? Is the way blocked? Or have we already come up | |
against the French?” | |
“No, one can’t hear them. They’d be firing if we had.” | |
“They were in a hurry enough to start us, and now here we stand in | |
the middle of a field without rhyme or reason. It’s all those damned | |
Germans’ muddling! What stupid devils!” | |
“Yes, I’d send them on in front, but no fear, they’re crowding up | |
behind. And now here we stand hungry.” | |
“I say, shall we soon be clear? They say the cavalry are blocking the | |
way,” said an officer. | |
“Ah, those damned Germans! They don’t know their own country!” | |
said another. | |
“What division are you?” shouted an adjutant, riding up. | |
“The Eighteenth.” | |
“Then why are you here? You should have gone on long ago, now you | |
won’t get there till evening.” | |
“What stupid orders! They don’t themselves know what they are | |
doing!” said the officer and rode off. | |
Then a general rode past shouting something angrily, not in Russian. | |
“Tafa-lafa! But what he’s jabbering no one can make out,” said a | |
soldier, mimicking the general who had ridden away. “I’d shoot them, | |
the scoundrels!” | |
“We were ordered to be at the place before nine, but we haven’t got | |
halfway. Fine orders!” was being repeated on different sides. | |
And the feeling of energy with which the troops had started began to | |
turn into vexation and anger at the stupid arrangements and at the | |
Germans. | |
The cause of the confusion was that while the Austrian cavalry was | |
moving toward our left flank, the higher command found that our center | |
was too far separated from our right flank and the cavalry were all | |
ordered to turn back to the right. Several thousand cavalry crossed in | |
front of the infantry, who had to wait. | |
At the front an altercation occurred between an Austrian guide and a | |
Russian general. The general shouted a demand that the cavalry should be | |
halted, the Austrian argued that not he, but the higher command, was to | |
blame. The troops meanwhile stood growing listless and dispirited. After | |
an hour’s delay they at last moved on, descending the hill. The fog | |
that was dispersing on the hill lay still more densely below, where they | |
were descending. In front in the fog a shot was heard and then another, | |
at first irregularly at varying intervals—trata...tat—and then more | |
and more regularly and rapidly, and the action at the Goldbach Stream | |
began. | |
Not expecting to come on the enemy down by the stream, and having | |
stumbled on him in the fog, hearing no encouraging word from their | |
commanders, and with a consciousness of being too late spreading through | |
the ranks, and above all being unable to see anything in front or around | |
them in the thick fog, the Russians exchanged shots with the enemy | |
lazily and advanced and again halted, receiving no timely orders from | |
the officers or adjutants who wandered about in the fog in those unknown | |
surroundings unable to find their own regiments. In this way the action | |
began for the first, second, and third columns, which had gone down into | |
the valley. The fourth column, with which Kutúzov was, stood on the | |
Pratzen Heights. | |
Below, where the fight was beginning, there was still thick fog; on the | |
higher ground it was clearing, but nothing could be seen of what was | |
going on in front. Whether all the enemy forces were, as we supposed, | |
six miles away, or whether they were near by in that sea of mist, no one | |
knew till after eight o’clock. | |
It was nine o’clock in the morning. The fog lay unbroken like a sea | |
down below, but higher up at the village of Schlappanitz where Napoleon | |
stood with his marshals around him, it was quite light. Above him was | |
a clear blue sky, and the sun’s vast orb quivered like a huge hollow, | |
crimson float on the surface of that milky sea of mist. The whole French | |
army, and even Napoleon himself with his staff, were not on the far side | |
of the streams and hollows of Sokolnitz and Schlappanitz beyond which we | |
intended to take up our position and begin the action, but were on this | |
side, so close to our own forces that Napoleon with the naked eye could | |
distinguish a mounted man from one on foot. Napoleon, in the blue cloak | |
which he had worn on his Italian campaign, sat on his small gray Arab | |
horse a little in front of his marshals. He gazed silently at the hills | |
which seemed to rise out of the sea of mist and on which the Russian | |
troops were moving in the distance, and he listened to the sounds of | |
firing in the valley. Not a single muscle of his face—which in those | |
days was still thin—moved. His gleaming eyes were fixed intently on | |
one spot. His predictions were being justified. Part of the Russian | |
force had already descended into the valley toward the ponds and lakes | |
and part were leaving these Pratzen Heights which he intended to attack | |
and regarded as the key to the position. He saw over the mist that in | |
a hollow between two hills near the village of Pratzen, the Russian | |
columns, their bayonets glittering, were moving continuously in one | |
direction toward the valley and disappearing one after another into | |
the mist. From information he had received the evening before, from the | |
sound of wheels and footsteps heard by the outposts during the night, | |
by the disorderly movement of the Russian columns, and from all | |
indications, he saw clearly that the allies believed him to be far away | |
in front of them, and that the columns moving near Pratzen constituted | |
the center of the Russian army, and that that center was already | |
sufficiently weakened to be successfully attacked. But still he did not | |
begin the engagement. | |
Today was a great day for him—the anniversary of his coronation. | |
Before dawn he had slept for a few hours, and refreshed, vigorous, and | |
in good spirits, he mounted his horse and rode out into the field | |
in that happy mood in which everything seems possible and everything | |
succeeds. He sat motionless, looking at the heights visible above | |
the mist, and his cold face wore that special look of confident, | |
self-complacent happiness that one sees on the face of a boy happily | |
in love. The marshals stood behind him not venturing to distract his | |
attention. He looked now at the Pratzen Heights, now at the sun floating | |
up out of the mist. | |
When the sun had entirely emerged from the fog, and fields and mist were | |
aglow with dazzling light—as if he had only awaited this to begin the | |
action—he drew the glove from his shapely white hand, made a sign | |
with it to the marshals, and ordered the action to begin. The marshals, | |
accompanied by adjutants, galloped off in different directions, and | |
a few minutes later the chief forces of the French army moved rapidly | |
toward those Pratzen Heights which were being more and more denuded by | |
Russian troops moving down the valley to their left. | |
CHAPTER XV | |
At eight o’clock Kutúzov rode to Pratzen at the head of the fourth | |
column, Milorádovich’s, the one that was to take the place of | |
Przebyszéwski’s and Langeron’s columns which had already gone down | |
into the valley. He greeted the men of the foremost regiment and gave | |
them the order to march, thereby indicating that he intended to lead | |
that column himself. When he had reached the village of Pratzen he | |
halted. Prince Andrew was behind, among the immense number forming the | |
commander in chief’s suite. He was in a state of suppressed excitement | |
and irritation, though controlledly calm as a man is at the approach of | |
a long-awaited moment. He was firmly convinced that this was the day of | |
his Toulon, or his bridge of Arcola. How it would come about he did not | |
know, but he felt sure it would do so. The locality and the position of | |
our troops were known to him as far as they could be known to anyone | |
in our army. His own strategic plan, which obviously could not now | |
be carried out, was forgotten. Now, entering into Weyrother’s plan, | |
Prince Andrew considered possible contingencies and formed new projects | |
such as might call for his rapidity of perception and decision. | |
To the left down below in the mist, the musketry fire of unseen forces | |
could be heard. It was there Prince Andrew thought the fight would | |
concentrate. “There we shall encounter difficulties, and there,” | |
thought he, “I shall be sent with a brigade or division, and there, | |
standard in hand, I shall go forward and break whatever is in front of | |
me.” | |
He could not look calmly at the standards of the passing battalions. | |
Seeing them he kept thinking, “That may be the very standard with | |
which I shall lead the army.” | |
In the morning all that was left of the night mist on the heights was | |
a hoar frost now turning to dew, but in the valleys it still lay like a | |
milk-white sea. Nothing was visible in the valley to the left into which | |
our troops had descended and from whence came the sounds of firing. | |
Above the heights was the dark clear sky, and to the right the vast orb | |
of the sun. In front, far off on the farther shore of that sea of mist, | |
some wooded hills were discernible, and it was there the enemy probably | |
was, for something could be descried. On the right the Guards were | |
entering the misty region with a sound of hoofs and wheels and now and | |
then a gleam of bayonets; to the left beyond the village similar masses | |
of cavalry came up and disappeared in the sea of mist. In front and | |
behind moved infantry. The commander in chief was standing at the end of | |
the village letting the troops pass by him. That morning Kutúzov seemed | |
worn and irritable. The infantry passing before him came to a halt | |
without any command being given, apparently obstructed by something in | |
front. | |
“Do order them to form into battalion columns and go round the | |
village!” he said angrily to a general who had ridden up. “Don’t | |
you understand, your excellency, my dear sir, that you must not | |
defile through narrow village streets when we are marching against the | |
enemy?” | |
“I intended to re-form them beyond the village, your excellency,” | |
answered the general. | |
Kutúzov laughed bitterly. | |
“You’ll make a fine thing of it, deploying in sight of the enemy! | |
Very fine!” | |
“The enemy is still far away, your excellency. According to the | |
dispositions...” | |
“The dispositions!” exclaimed Kutúzov bitterly. “Who told you | |
that?... Kindly do as you are ordered.” | |
“Yes, sir.” | |
“My dear fellow,” Nesvítski whispered to Prince Andrew, “the old | |
man is as surly as a dog.” | |
An Austrian officer in a white uniform with green plumes in his hat | |
galloped up to Kutúzov and asked in the Emperor’s name had the fourth | |
column advanced into action. | |
Kutúzov turned round without answering and his eye happened to fall | |
upon Prince Andrew, who was beside him. Seeing him, Kutúzov’s | |
malevolent and caustic expression softened, as if admitting that what | |
was being done was not his adjutant’s fault, and still not answering | |
the Austrian adjutant, he addressed Bolkónski. | |
“Go, my dear fellow, and see whether the third division has passed the | |
village. Tell it to stop and await my orders.” | |
Hardly had Prince Andrew started than he stopped him. | |
“And ask whether sharpshooters have been posted,” he added. “What | |
are they doing? What are they doing?” he murmured to himself, still | |
not replying to the Austrian. | |
Prince Andrew galloped off to execute the order. | |
Overtaking the battalions that continued to advance, he stopped | |
the third division and convinced himself that there really were no | |
sharpshooters in front of our columns. The colonel at the head of the | |
regiment was much surprised at the commander in chief’s order to throw | |
out skirmishers. He had felt perfectly sure that there were other troops | |
in front of him and that the enemy must be at least six miles away. | |
There was really nothing to be seen in front except a barren descent | |
hidden by dense mist. Having given orders in the commander in chief’s | |
name to rectify this omission, Prince Andrew galloped back. Kutúzov | |
still in the same place, his stout body resting heavily in the saddle | |
with the lassitude of age, sat yawning wearily with closed eyes. The | |
troops were no longer moving, but stood with the butts of their muskets | |
on the ground. | |
“All right, all right!” he said to Prince Andrew, and turned to a | |
general who, watch in hand, was saying it was time they started as all | |
the left-flank columns had already descended. | |
“Plenty of time, your excellency,” muttered Kutúzov in the midst of | |
a yawn. “Plenty of time,” he repeated. | |
Just then at a distance behind Kutúzov was heard the sound of regiments | |
saluting, and this sound rapidly came nearer along the whole extended | |
line of the advancing Russian columns. Evidently the person they were | |
greeting was riding quickly. When the soldiers of the regiment in front | |
of which Kutúzov was standing began to shout, he rode a little to one | |
side and looked round with a frown. Along the road from Pratzen galloped | |
what looked like a squadron of horsemen in various uniforms. Two of them | |
rode side by side in front, at full gallop. One in a black uniform with | |
white plumes in his hat rode a bobtailed chestnut horse, the other who | |
was in a white uniform rode a black one. These were the two Emperors | |
followed by their suites. Kutúzov, affecting the manners of an old | |
soldier at the front, gave the command “Attention!” and rode up | |
to the Emperors with a salute. His whole appearance and manner were | |
suddenly transformed. He put on the air of a subordinate who obeys | |
without reasoning. With an affectation of respect which evidently struck | |
Alexander unpleasantly, he rode up and saluted. | |
This unpleasant impression merely flitted over the young and happy face | |
of the Emperor like a cloud of haze across a clear sky and vanished. | |
After his illness he looked rather thinner that day than on the field | |
of Olmütz where Bolkónski had seen him for the first time abroad, but | |
there was still the same bewitching combination of majesty and mildness | |
in his fine gray eyes, and on his delicate lips the same capacity for | |
varying expression and the same prevalent appearance of goodhearted | |
innocent youth. | |
At the Olmütz review he had seemed more majestic; here he seemed | |
brighter and more energetic. He was slightly flushed after galloping two | |
miles, and reining in his horse he sighed restfully and looked round | |
at the faces of his suite, young and animated as his own. Czartorýski, | |
Novosíltsev, Prince Volkónsky, Strógonov, and the others, all richly | |
dressed gay young men on splendid, well-groomed, fresh, only slightly | |
heated horses, exchanging remarks and smiling, had stopped behind the | |
Emperor. The Emperor Francis, a rosy, long faced young man, sat very | |
erect on his handsome black horse, looking about him in a leisurely and | |
preoccupied manner. He beckoned to one of his white adjutants and asked | |
some question—“Most likely he is asking at what o’clock they | |
started,” thought Prince Andrew, watching his old acquaintance with | |
a smile he could not repress as he recalled his reception at Brünn. | |
In the Emperors’ suite were the picked young orderly officers of the | |
Guard and line regiments, Russian and Austrian. Among them were grooms | |
leading the Tsar’s beautiful relay horses covered with embroidered | |
cloths. | |
As when a window is opened a whiff of fresh air from the fields enters | |
a stuffy room, so a whiff of youthfulness, energy, and confidence of | |
success reached Kutúzov’s cheerless staff with the galloping advent | |
of all these brilliant young men. | |
“Why aren’t you beginning, Michael Ilariónovich?” said the | |
Emperor Alexander hurriedly to Kutúzov, glancing courteously at the | |
same time at the Emperor Francis. | |
“I am waiting, Your Majesty,” answered Kutúzov, bending forward | |
respectfully. | |
The Emperor, frowning slightly, bent his ear forward as if he had not | |
quite heard. | |
“Waiting, Your Majesty,” repeated Kutúzov. (Prince Andrew noted | |
that Kutúzov’s upper lip twitched unnaturally as he said the | |
word “waiting.”) “Not all the columns have formed up yet, Your | |
Majesty.” | |
The Tsar heard but obviously did not like the reply; he shrugged his | |
rather round shoulders and glanced at Novosíltsev who was near him, as | |
if complaining of Kutúzov. | |
“You know, Michael Ilariónovich, we are not on the Empress’ Field | |
where a parade does not begin till all the troops are assembled,” said | |
the Tsar with another glance at the Emperor Francis, as if inviting | |
him if not to join in at least to listen to what he was saying. But the | |
Emperor Francis continued to look about him and did not listen. | |
“That is just why I do not begin, sire,” said Kutúzov in a | |
resounding voice, apparently to preclude the possibility of not being | |
heard, and again something in his face twitched—“That is just why | |
I do not begin, sire, because we are not on parade and not on the | |
Empress’ Field,” said he clearly and distinctly. | |
In the Emperor’s suite all exchanged rapid looks that expressed | |
dissatisfaction and reproach. “Old though he may be, he should not, he | |
certainly should not, speak like that,” their glances seemed to say. | |
The Tsar looked intently and observantly into Kutúzov’s eye | |
waiting to hear whether he would say anything more. But Kutúzov, with | |
respectfully bowed head, seemed also to be waiting. The silence lasted | |
for about a minute. | |
“However, if you command it, Your Majesty,” said Kutúzov, lifting | |
his head and again assuming his former tone of a dull, unreasoning, but | |
submissive general. | |
He touched his horse and having called Milorádovich, the commander of | |
the column, gave him the order to advance. | |
The troops again began to move, and two battalions of the Nóvgorod and | |
one of the Ápsheron regiment went forward past the Emperor. | |
As this Ápsheron battalion marched by, the red-faced Milorádovich, | |
without his greatcoat, with his Orders on his breast and an enormous | |
tuft of plumes in his cocked hat worn on one side with its corners front | |
and back, galloped strenuously forward, and with a dashing salute reined | |
in his horse before the Emperor. | |
“God be with you, general!” said the Emperor. | |
“Ma foi, sire, nous ferons ce qui sera dans notre possibilité, | |
sire,” * he answered gaily, raising nevertheless ironic smiles among | |
the gentlemen of the Tsar’s suite by his poor French. | |
* “Indeed, Sire, we shall do everything it is possible to | |
do, Sire.” | |
Milorádovich wheeled his horse sharply and stationed himself a little | |
behind the Emperor. The Ápsheron men, excited by the Tsar’s presence, | |
passed in step before the Emperors and their suites at a bold, brisk | |
pace. | |
“Lads!” shouted Milorádovich in a loud, self-confident, and cheery | |
voice, obviously so elated by the sound of firing, by the prospect of | |
battle, and by the sight of the gallant Ápsherons, his comrades in | |
Suvórov’s time, now passing so gallantly before the Emperors, that he | |
forgot the sovereigns’ presence. “Lads, it’s not the first village | |
you’ve had to take,” cried he. | |
“Glad to do our best!” shouted the soldiers. | |
The Emperor’s horse started at the sudden cry. This horse that had | |
carried the sovereign at reviews in Russia bore him also here on the | |
field of Austerlitz, enduring the heedless blows of his left foot and | |
pricking its ears at the sound of shots just as it had done on the | |
Empress’ Field, not understanding the significance of the firing, nor | |
of the nearness of the Emperor Francis’ black cob, nor of all that was | |
being said, thought, and felt that day by its rider. | |
The Emperor turned with a smile to one of his followers and made a | |
remark to him, pointing to the gallant Ápsherons. | |
CHAPTER XVI | |
Kutúzov accompanied by his adjutants rode at a walking pace behind the | |
carabineers. | |
When he had gone less than half a mile in the rear of the column he | |
stopped at a solitary, deserted house that had probably once been an | |
inn, where two roads parted. Both of them led downhill and troops were | |
marching along both. | |
The fog had begun to clear and enemy troops were already dimly visible | |
about a mile and a half off on the opposite heights. Down below, on | |
the left, the firing became more distinct. Kutúzov had stopped and was | |
speaking to an Austrian general. Prince Andrew, who was a little behind | |
looking at them, turned to an adjutant to ask him for a field glass. | |
“Look, look!” said this adjutant, looking not at the troops in the | |
distance, but down the hill before him. “It’s the French!” | |
The two generals and the adjutant took hold of the field glass, trying | |
to snatch it from one another. The expression on all their faces | |
suddenly changed to one of horror. The French were supposed to be a | |
mile and a half away, but had suddenly and unexpectedly appeared just in | |
front of us. | |
“It’s the enemy?... No!... Yes, see it is!... for certain.... But | |
how is that?” said different voices. | |
With the naked eye Prince Andrew saw below them to the right, not more | |
than five hundred paces from where Kutúzov was standing, a dense French | |
column coming up to meet the Ápsherons. | |
“Here it is! The decisive moment has arrived. My turn has come,” | |
thought Prince Andrew, and striking his horse he rode up to Kutúzov. | |
“The Ápsherons must be stopped, your excellency,” cried he. But at | |
that very instant a cloud of smoke spread all round, firing was heard | |
quite close at hand, and a voice of naïve terror barely two steps from | |
Prince Andrew shouted, “Brothers! All’s lost!” And at this as if | |
at a command, everyone began to run. | |
Confused and ever-increasing crowds were running back to where five | |
minutes before the troops had passed the Emperors. Not only would it | |
have been difficult to stop that crowd, it was even impossible not to | |
be carried back with it oneself. Bolkónski only tried not to lose | |
touch with it, and looked around bewildered and unable to grasp what was | |
happening in front of him. Nesvítski with an angry face, red and unlike | |
himself, was shouting to Kutúzov that if he did not ride away at once | |
he would certainly be taken prisoner. Kutúzov remained in the same | |
place and without answering drew out a handkerchief. Blood was flowing | |
from his cheek. Prince Andrew forced his way to him. | |
“You are wounded?” he asked, hardly able to master the trembling of | |
his lower jaw. | |
“The wound is not here, it is there!” said Kutúzov, pressing the | |
handkerchief to his wounded cheek and pointing to the fleeing soldiers. | |
“Stop them!” he shouted, and at the same moment, probably realizing | |
that it was impossible to stop them, spurred his horse and rode to the | |
right. | |
A fresh wave of the flying mob caught him and bore him back with it. | |
The troops were running in such a dense mass that once surrounded by | |
them it was difficult to get out again. One was shouting, “Get on! | |
Why are you hindering us?” Another in the same place turned round and | |
fired in the air; a third was striking the horse Kutúzov himself rode. | |
Having by a great effort got away to the left from that flood of men, | |
Kutúzov, with his suite diminished by more than half, rode toward a | |
sound of artillery fire near by. Having forced his way out of the crowd | |
of fugitives, Prince Andrew, trying to keep near Kutúzov, saw on the | |
slope of the hill amid the smoke a Russian battery that was still firing | |
and Frenchmen running toward it. Higher up stood some Russian infantry, | |
neither moving forward to protect the battery nor backward with the | |
fleeing crowd. A mounted general separated himself from the infantry and | |
approached Kutúzov. Of Kutúzov’s suite only four remained. They were | |
all pale and exchanged looks in silence. | |
“Stop those wretches!” gasped Kutúzov to the regimental commander, | |
pointing to the flying soldiers; but at that instant, as if to punish | |
him for those words, bullets flew hissing across the regiment and across | |
Kutúzov’s suite like a flock of little birds. | |
The French had attacked the battery and, seeing Kutúzov, were firing | |
at him. After this volley the regimental commander clutched at his leg; | |
several soldiers fell, and a second lieutenant who was holding the | |
flag let it fall from his hands. It swayed and fell, but caught on the | |
muskets of the nearest soldiers. The soldiers started firing without | |
orders. | |
“Oh! Oh! Oh!” groaned Kutúzov despairingly and looked around.... | |
“Bolkónski!” he whispered, his voice trembling from a consciousness | |
of the feebleness of age, “Bolkónski!” he whispered, pointing to | |
the disordered battalion and at the enemy, “what’s that?” | |
But before he had finished speaking, Prince Andrew, feeling tears of | |
shame and anger choking him, had already leapt from his horse and run to | |
the standard. | |
“Forward, lads!” he shouted in a voice piercing as a child’s. | |
“Here it is!” thought he, seizing the staff of the standard and | |
hearing with pleasure the whistle of bullets evidently aimed at him. | |
Several soldiers fell. | |
“Hurrah!” shouted Prince Andrew, and, scarcely able to hold up | |
the heavy standard, he ran forward with full confidence that the whole | |
battalion would follow him. | |
And really he only ran a few steps alone. One soldier moved and then | |
another and soon the whole battalion ran forward shouting “Hurrah!” | |
and overtook him. A sergeant of the battalion ran up and took the flag | |
that was swaying from its weight in Prince Andrew’s hands, but he | |
was immediately killed. Prince Andrew again seized the standard and, | |
dragging it by the staff, ran on with the battalion. In front he saw our | |
artillerymen, some of whom were fighting, while others, having abandoned | |
their guns, were running toward him. He also saw French infantry | |
soldiers who were seizing the artillery horses and turning the guns | |
round. Prince Andrew and the battalion were already within twenty paces | |
of the cannon. He heard the whistle of bullets above him unceasingly and | |
to right and left of him soldiers continually groaned and dropped. But | |
he did not look at them: he looked only at what was going on in front | |
of him—at the battery. He now saw clearly the figure of a red-haired | |
gunner with his shako knocked awry, pulling one end of a mop while | |
a French soldier tugged at the other. He could distinctly see the | |
distraught yet angry expression on the faces of these two men, who | |
evidently did not realize what they were doing. | |
“What are they about?” thought Prince Andrew as he gazed at them. | |
“Why doesn’t the red-haired gunner run away as he is unarmed? | |
Why doesn’t the Frenchman stab him? He will not get away before the | |
Frenchman remembers his bayonet and stabs him....” | |
And really another French soldier, trailing his musket, ran up to | |
the struggling men, and the fate of the red-haired gunner, who had | |
triumphantly secured the mop and still did not realize what awaited him, | |
was about to be decided. But Prince Andrew did not see how it ended. It | |
seemed to him as though one of the soldiers near him hit him on the head | |
with the full swing of a bludgeon. It hurt a little, but the worst of | |
it was that the pain distracted him and prevented his seeing what he had | |
been looking at. | |
“What’s this? Am I falling? My legs are giving way,” thought he, | |
and fell on his back. He opened his eyes, hoping to see how the struggle | |
of the Frenchmen with the gunners ended, whether the red-haired gunner | |
had been killed or not and whether the cannon had been captured or | |
saved. But he saw nothing. Above him there was now nothing but the | |
sky—the lofty sky, not clear yet still immeasurably lofty, with gray | |
clouds gliding slowly across it. “How quiet, peaceful, and solemn; not | |
at all as I ran,” thought Prince Andrew—“not as we ran, shouting | |
and fighting, not at all as the gunner and the Frenchman with frightened | |
and angry faces struggled for the mop: how differently do those clouds | |
glide across that lofty infinite sky! How was it I did not see that | |
lofty sky before? And how happy I am to have found it at last! Yes! All | |
is vanity, all falsehood, except that infinite sky. There is nothing, | |
nothing, but that. But even it does not exist, there is nothing but | |
quiet and peace. Thank God!...” | |
CHAPTER XVII | |
On our right flank commanded by Bagratión, at nine o’clock the battle | |
had not yet begun. Not wishing to agree to Dolgorúkov’s demand to | |
commence the action, and wishing to avert responsibility from himself, | |
Prince Bagratión proposed to Dolgorúkov to send to inquire of the | |
commander in chief. Bagratión knew that as the distance between the two | |
flanks was more than six miles, even if the messenger were not killed | |
(which he very likely would be), and found the commander in chief | |
(which would be very difficult), he would not be able to get back before | |
evening. | |
Bagratión cast his large, expressionless, sleepy eyes round his suite, | |
and the boyish face Rostóv, breathless with excitement and hope, was | |
the first to catch his eye. He sent him. | |
“And if I should meet His Majesty before I meet the commander in | |
chief, your excellency?” said Rostóv, with his hand to his cap. | |
“You can give the message to His Majesty,” said Dolgorúkov, | |
hurriedly interrupting Bagratión. | |
On being relieved from picket duty Rostóv had managed to get a few | |
hours’ sleep before morning and felt cheerful, bold, and resolute, | |
with elasticity of movement, faith in his good fortune, and generally in | |
that state of mind which makes everything seem possible, pleasant, and | |
easy. | |
All his wishes were being fulfilled that morning: there was to be a | |
general engagement in which he was taking part, more than that, he was | |
orderly to the bravest general, and still more, he was going with a | |
message to Kutúzov, perhaps even to the sovereign himself. The morning | |
was bright, he had a good horse under him, and his heart was full of | |
joy and happiness. On receiving the order he gave his horse the rein | |
and galloped along the line. At first he rode along the line of | |
Bagratión’s troops, which had not yet advanced into action but were | |
standing motionless; then he came to the region occupied by Uvárov’s | |
cavalry and here he noticed a stir and signs of preparation for battle; | |
having passed Uvárov’s cavalry he clearly heard the sound of cannon | |
and musketry ahead of him. The firing grew louder and louder. | |
In the fresh morning air were now heard, not two or three musket shots | |
at irregular intervals as before, followed by one or two cannon shots, | |
but a roll of volleys of musketry from the slopes of the hill before | |
Pratzen, interrupted by such frequent reports of cannon that sometimes | |
several of them were not separated from one another but merged into a | |
general roar. | |
He could see puffs of musketry smoke that seemed to chase one another | |
down the hillsides, and clouds of cannon smoke rolling, spreading, | |
and mingling with one another. He could also, by the gleam of bayonets | |
visible through the smoke, make out moving masses of infantry and narrow | |
lines of artillery with green caissons. | |
Rostóv stopped his horse for a moment on a hillock to see what was | |
going on, but strain his attention as he would he could not understand | |
or make out anything of what was happening: there in the smoke men of | |
some sort were moving about, in front and behind moved lines of troops; | |
but why, whither, and who they were, it was impossible to make out. | |
These sights and sounds had no depressing or intimidating effect on him; | |
on the contrary, they stimulated his energy and determination. | |
“Go on! Go on! Give it them!” he mentally exclaimed at these sounds, | |
and again proceeded to gallop along the line, penetrating farther and | |
farther into the region where the army was already in action. | |
“How it will be there I don’t know, but all will be well!” thought | |
Rostóv. | |
After passing some Austrian troops he noticed that the next part of the | |
line (the Guards) was already in action. | |
“So much the better! I shall see it close,” he thought. | |
He was riding almost along the front line. A handful of men came | |
galloping toward him. They were our Uhlans who with disordered | |
ranks were returning from the attack. Rostóv got out of their way, | |
involuntarily noticed that one of them was bleeding, and galloped on. | |
“That is no business of mine,” he thought. He had not ridden many | |
hundred yards after that before he saw to his left, across the whole | |
width of the field, an enormous mass of cavalry in brilliant white | |
uniforms, mounted on black horses, trotting straight toward him and | |
across his path. Rostóv put his horse to full gallop to get out of the | |
way of these men, and he would have got clear had they continued at the | |
same speed, but they kept increasing their pace, so that some of the | |
horses were already galloping. Rostóv heard the thud of their hoofs | |
and the jingle of their weapons and saw their horses, their figures, and | |
even their faces, more and more distinctly. They were our Horse Guards, | |
advancing to attack the French cavalry that was coming to meet them. | |
The Horse Guards were galloping, but still holding in their horses. | |
Rostóv could already see their faces and heard the command: | |
“Charge!” shouted by an officer who was urging his thoroughbred to | |
full speed. Rostóv, fearing to be crushed or swept into the attack on | |
the French, galloped along the front as hard as his horse could go, but | |
still was not in time to avoid them. | |
The last of the Horse Guards, a huge pockmarked fellow, frowned angrily | |
on seeing Rostóv before him, with whom he would inevitably collide. | |
This Guardsman would certainly have bowled Rostóv and his Bedouin over | |
(Rostóv felt himself quite tiny and weak compared to these gigantic men | |
and horses) had it not occurred to Rostóv to flourish his whip before | |
the eyes of the Guardsman’s horse. The heavy black horse, sixteen | |
hands high, shied, throwing back its ears; but the pockmarked Guardsman | |
drove his huge spurs in violently, and the horse, flourishing its tail | |
and extending its neck, galloped on yet faster. Hardly had the Horse | |
Guards passed Rostóv before he heard them shout, “Hurrah!” and | |
looking back saw that their foremost ranks were mixed up with some | |
foreign cavalry with red epaulets, probably French. He could see nothing | |
more, for immediately afterwards cannon began firing from somewhere and | |
smoke enveloped everything. | |
At that moment, as the Horse Guards, having passed him, disappeared in | |
the smoke, Rostóv hesitated whether to gallop after them or to go where | |
he was sent. This was the brilliant charge of the Horse Guards that | |
amazed the French themselves. Rostóv was horrified to hear later that | |
of all that mass of huge and handsome men, of all those brilliant, | |
rich youths, officers and cadets, who had galloped past him on their | |
thousand-ruble horses, only eighteen were left after the charge. | |
“Why should I envy them? My chance is not lost, and maybe I shall see | |
the Emperor immediately!” thought Rostóv and galloped on. | |
When he came level with the Foot Guards he noticed that about them and | |
around them cannon balls were flying, of which he was aware not so | |
much because he heard their sound as because he saw uneasiness on | |
the soldiers’ faces and unnatural warlike solemnity on those of the | |
officers. | |
Passing behind one of the lines of a regiment of Foot Guards he heard a | |
voice calling him by name. | |
“Rostóv!” | |
“What?” he answered, not recognizing Borís. | |
“I say, we’ve been in the front line! Our regiment attacked!” said | |
Borís with the happy smile seen on the faces of young men who have been | |
under fire for the first time. | |
Rostóv stopped. | |
“Have you?” he said. “Well, how did it go?” | |
“We drove them back!” said Borís with animation, growing talkative. | |
“Can you imagine it?” and he began describing how the Guards, having | |
taken up their position and seeing troops before them, thought they were | |
Austrians, and all at once discovered from the cannon balls discharged | |
by those troops that they were themselves in the front line and had | |
unexpectedly to go into action. Rostóv without hearing Borís to the | |
end spurred his horse. | |
“Where are you off to?” asked Borís. | |
“With a message to His Majesty.” | |
“There he is!” said Borís, thinking Rostóv had said “His | |
Highness,” and pointing to the Grand Duke who with his high shoulders | |
and frowning brows stood a hundred paces away from them in his helmet | |
and Horse Guards’ jacket, shouting something to a pale, white | |
uniformed Austrian officer. | |
“But that’s the Grand Duke, and I want the commander in chief or the | |
Emperor,” said Rostóv, and was about to spur his horse. | |
“Count! Count!” shouted Berg who ran up from the other side as eager | |
as Borís. “Count! I am wounded in my right hand” (and he showed his | |
bleeding hand with a handkerchief tied round it) “and I remained at | |
the front. I held my sword in my left hand, Count. All our family—the | |
von Bergs—have been knights!” | |
He said something more, but Rostóv did not wait to hear it and rode | |
away. | |
Having passed the Guards and traversed an empty space, Rostóv, to avoid | |
again getting in front of the first line as he had done when the Horse | |
Guards charged, followed the line of reserves, going far round the place | |
where the hottest musket fire and cannonade were heard. Suddenly he | |
heard musket fire quite close in front of him and behind our troops, | |
where he could never have expected the enemy to be. | |
“What can it be?” he thought. “The enemy in the rear of our army? | |
Impossible!” And suddenly he was seized by a panic of fear for himself | |
and for the issue of the whole battle. “But be that what it may,” | |
he reflected, “there is no riding round it now. I must look for the | |
commander in chief here, and if all is lost it is for me to perish with | |
the rest.” | |
The foreboding of evil that had suddenly come over Rostóv was more and | |
more confirmed the farther he rode into the region behind the village of | |
Pratzen, which was full of troops of all kinds. | |
“What does it mean? What is it? Whom are they firing at? Who is | |
firing?” Rostóv kept asking as he came up to Russian and Austrian | |
soldiers running in confused crowds across his path. | |
“The devil knows! They’ve killed everybody! It’s all up now!” | |
he was told in Russian, German, and Czech by the crowd of fugitives who | |
understood what was happening as little as he did. | |
“Kill the Germans!” shouted one. | |
“May the devil take them—the traitors!” | |
“Zum Henker diese Russen!” * muttered a German. | |
* “Hang these Russians!” | |
Several wounded men passed along the road, and words of abuse, screams, | |
and groans mingled in a general hubbub, then the firing died down. | |
Rostóv learned later that Russian and Austrian soldiers had been firing | |
at one another. | |
“My God! What does it all mean?” thought he. “And here, where at | |
any moment the Emperor may see them.... But no, these must be only a | |
handful of scoundrels. It will soon be over, it can’t be that, it | |
can’t be! Only to get past them quicker, quicker!” | |
The idea of defeat and flight could not enter Rostóv’s head. Though | |
he saw French cannon and French troops on the Pratzen Heights just where | |
he had been ordered to look for the commander in chief, he could not, | |
did not wish to, believe that. | |
CHAPTER XVIII | |
Rostóv had been ordered to look for Kutúzov and the Emperor near the | |
village of Pratzen. But neither they nor a single commanding officer | |
were there, only disorganized crowds of troops of various kinds. He | |
urged on his already weary horse to get quickly past these crowds, but | |
the farther he went the more disorganized they were. The highroad on | |
which he had come out was thronged with calèches, carriages of all | |
sorts, and Russian and Austrian soldiers of all arms, some wounded and | |
some not. This whole mass droned and jostled in confusion under the | |
dismal influence of cannon balls flying from the French batteries | |
stationed on the Pratzen Heights. | |
“Where is the Emperor? Where is Kutúzov?” Rostóv kept asking | |
everyone he could stop, but got no answer from anyone. | |
At last seizing a soldier by his collar he forced him to answer. | |
“Eh, brother! They’ve all bolted long ago!” said the soldier, | |
laughing for some reason and shaking himself free. | |
Having left that soldier who was evidently drunk, Rostóv stopped the | |
horse of a batman or groom of some important personage and began to | |
question him. The man announced that the Tsar had been driven in a | |
carriage at full speed about an hour before along that very road and | |
that he was dangerously wounded. | |
“It can’t be!” said Rostóv. “It must have been someone else.” | |
“I saw him myself,” replied the man with a self-confident smile of | |
derision. “I ought to know the Emperor by now, after the times I’ve | |
seen him in Petersburg. I saw him just as I see you.... There he sat in | |
the carriage as pale as anything. How they made the four black horses | |
fly! Gracious me, they did rattle past! It’s time I knew the Imperial | |
horses and Ilyá Iványch. I don’t think Ilyá drives anyone except | |
the Tsar!” | |
Rostóv let go of the horse and was about to ride on, when a wounded | |
officer passing by addressed him: | |
“Who is it you want?” he asked. “The commander in chief? He was | |
killed by a cannon ball—struck in the breast before our regiment.” | |
“Not killed—wounded!” another officer corrected him. | |
“Who? Kutúzov?” asked Rostóv. | |
“Not Kutúzov, but what’s his name—well, never mind... there are | |
not many left alive. Go that way, to that village, all the commanders | |
are there,” said the officer, pointing to the village of Hosjeradek, | |
and he walked on. | |
Rostóv rode on at a footpace not knowing why or to whom he was now | |
going. The Emperor was wounded, the battle lost. It was impossible to | |
doubt it now. Rostóv rode in the direction pointed out to him, in which | |
he saw turrets and a church. What need to hurry? What was he now to say | |
to the Tsar or to Kutúzov, even if they were alive and unwounded? | |
“Take this road, your honor, that way you will be killed at once!” a | |
soldier shouted to him. “They’d kill you there!” | |
“Oh, what are you talking about?” said another. “Where is he to | |
go? That way is nearer.” | |
Rostóv considered, and then went in the direction where they said he | |
would be killed. | |
“It’s all the same now. If the Emperor is wounded, am I to try to | |
save myself?” he thought. He rode on to the region where the greatest | |
number of men had perished in fleeing from Pratzen. The French had not | |
yet occupied that region, and the Russians—the uninjured and slightly | |
wounded—had left it long ago. All about the field, like heaps of | |
manure on well-kept plowland, lay from ten to fifteen dead and wounded | |
to each couple of acres. The wounded crept together in twos and threes | |
and one could hear their distressing screams and groans, sometimes | |
feigned—or so it seemed to Rostóv. He put his horse to a trot to | |
avoid seeing all these suffering men, and he felt afraid—afraid not | |
for his life, but for the courage he needed and which he knew would not | |
stand the sight of these unfortunates. | |
The French, who had ceased firing at this field strewn with dead and | |
wounded where there was no one left to fire at, on seeing an adjutant | |
riding over it trained a gun on him and fired several shots. The | |
sensation of those terrible whistling sounds and of the corpses around | |
him merged in Rostóv’s mind into a single feeling of terror and pity | |
for himself. He remembered his mother’s last letter. “What would she | |
feel,” thought he, “if she saw me here now on this field with the | |
cannon aimed at me?” | |
In the village of Hosjeradek there were Russian troops retiring from | |
the field of battle, who though still in some confusion were less | |
disordered. The French cannon did not reach there and the musketry fire | |
sounded far away. Here everyone clearly saw and said that the battle | |
was lost. No one whom Rostóv asked could tell him where the Emperor | |
or Kutúzov was. 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 Tolstóy, who had ridden out to the battlefield with others in | |
the Emperor’s suite. One officer told Rostóv that he had seen someone | |
from headquarters behind the village to the left, and thither Rostóv | |
rode, not hoping to find anyone but merely to ease his conscience. When | |
he had ridden about two miles and had passed the last of the Russian | |
troops, he saw, near a kitchen garden with a ditch round it, two men | |
on horseback facing the ditch. One with a white plume in his hat seemed | |
familiar to Rostóv; the other on a beautiful chestnut horse (which | |
Rostóv fancied he had seen before) rode up to the ditch, struck his | |
horse with his spurs, and giving it the rein leaped lightly over. Only | |
a little earth crumbled from the bank under the horse’s hind hoofs. | |
Turning the horse sharply, he again jumped the ditch, and deferentially | |
addressed the horseman with the white plumes, evidently suggesting | |
that he should do the same. The rider, whose figure seemed familiar | |
to Rostóv and involuntarily riveted his attention, made a gesture of | |
refusal with his head and hand and by that gesture Rostóv instantly | |
recognized his lamented and adored monarch. | |
“But it can’t be he, alone in the midst of this empty field!” | |
thought Rostóv. At that moment Alexander turned his head and Rostóv | |
saw the beloved features that were so deeply engraved on his memory. The | |
Emperor was pale, his cheeks sunken and his eyes hollow, but the charm, | |
the mildness of his features, was all the greater. Rostóv was happy | |
in the assurance that the rumors about the Emperor being wounded were | |
false. He was happy to be seeing him. He knew that he might and even | |
ought to go straight to him and give the message Dolgorúkov had ordered | |
him to deliver. | |
But as a youth in love trembles, is unnerved, and dares not utter the | |
thoughts he has dreamed of for nights, but looks around for help or a | |
chance of delay and flight when the longed-for moment comes and he is | |
alone with her, so Rostóv, now that he had attained what he had longed | |
for more than anything else in the world, did not know how to approach | |
the Emperor, and a thousand reasons occurred to him why it would be | |
inconvenient, unseemly, and impossible to do so. | |
“What! It is as if I were glad of a chance to take advantage of | |
his being alone and despondent! A strange face may seem unpleasant or | |
painful to him at this moment of sorrow; besides, what can I say to him | |
now, when my heart fails me and my mouth feels dry at the mere sight | |
of him?” Not one of the innumerable speeches addressed to the Emperor | |
that he had composed in his imagination could he now recall. Those | |
speeches were intended for quite other conditions, they were for the | |
most part to be spoken at a moment of victory and triumph, generally | |
when he was dying of wounds and the sovereign had thanked him for heroic | |
deeds, and while dying he expressed the love his actions had proved. | |
“Besides how can I ask the Emperor for his instructions for the right | |
flank now that it is nearly four o’clock and the battle is lost? | |
No, certainly I must not approach him, I must not intrude on his | |
reflections. Better die a thousand times than risk receiving an unkind | |
look or bad opinion from him,” Rostóv decided; and sorrowfully and | |
with a heart full despair he rode away, continually looking back at the | |
Tsar, who still remained in the same attitude of indecision. | |
While Rostóv was thus arguing with himself and riding sadly away, | |
Captain von Toll chanced to ride to the same spot, and seeing the | |
Emperor at once rode up to him, offered his services, and assisted him | |
to cross the ditch on foot. The Emperor, wishing to rest and feeling | |
unwell, sat down under an apple tree and von Toll remained beside him. | |
Rostóv from a distance saw with envy and remorse how von Toll spoke | |
long and warmly to the Emperor and how the Emperor, evidently weeping, | |
covered his eyes with his hand and pressed von Toll’s hand. | |
“And I might have been in his place!” thought Rostóv, and hardly | |
restraining his tears of pity for the Emperor, he rode on in utter | |
despair, not knowing where to or why he was now riding. | |
His despair was all the greater from feeling that his own weakness was | |
the cause of his grief. | |
He might... not only might but should, have gone up to the sovereign. It | |
was a unique chance to show his devotion to the Emperor and he had not | |
made use of it.... “What have I done?” thought he. And he turned | |
round and galloped back to the place where he had seen the Emperor, but | |
there was no one beyond the ditch now. Only some carts and carriages | |
were passing by. From one of the drivers he learned that Kutúzov’s | |
staff were not far off, in the village the vehicles were going to. | |
Rostóv followed them. In front of him walked Kutúzov’s groom leading | |
horses in horsecloths. Then came a cart, and behind that walked an old, | |
bandy-legged domestic serf in a peaked cap and sheepskin coat. | |
“Tit! I say, Tit!” said the groom. | |
“What?” answered the old man absent-mindedly. | |
“Go, Tit! Thresh a bit!” | |
“Oh, you fool!” said the old man, spitting angrily. Some time passed | |
in silence, and then the same joke was repeated. | |
Before five in the evening the battle had been lost at all points. More | |
than a hundred cannon were already in the hands of the French. | |
Przebyszéwski and his corps had laid down their arms. Other columns | |
after losing half their men were retreating in disorderly confused | |
masses. | |
The remains of Langeron’s and Dokhtúrov’s mingled forces were | |
crowding around the dams and banks of the ponds near the village of | |
Augesd. | |
After five o’clock it was only at the Augesd Dam that a hot cannonade | |
(delivered by the French alone) was still to be heard from numerous | |
batteries ranged on the slopes of the Pratzen Heights, directed at our | |
retreating forces. | |
In the rearguard, Dokhtúrov and others rallying some battalions kept up | |
a musketry fire at the French cavalry that was pursuing our troops. It | |
was growing dusk. On the narrow Augesd Dam where for so many years the | |
old miller had been accustomed to sit in his tasseled cap peacefully | |
angling, while his grandson, with shirt sleeves rolled up, handled the | |
floundering silvery fish in the watering can, on that dam over which for | |
so many years Moravians in shaggy caps and blue jackets had peacefully | |
driven their two-horse carts loaded with wheat and had returned dusty | |
with flour whitening their carts—on that narrow dam amid the wagons | |
and the cannon, under the horses’ hoofs and between the wagon wheels, | |
men disfigured by fear of death now crowded together, crushing one | |
another, dying, stepping over the dying and killing one another, only to | |
move on a few steps and be killed themselves in the same way. | |
Every ten seconds a cannon ball flew compressing the air around, or | |
a shell burst in the midst of that dense throng, killing some and | |
splashing with blood those near them. | |
Dólokhov—now an officer—wounded in the arm, and on foot, with | |
the regimental commander on horseback and some ten men of his company, | |
represented all that was left of that whole regiment. Impelled by the | |
crowd, they had got wedged in at the approach to the dam and, jammed in | |
on all sides, had stopped because a horse in front had fallen under a | |
cannon and the crowd were dragging it out. A cannon ball killed someone | |
behind them, another fell in front and splashed Dólokhov with blood. | |
The crowd, pushing forward desperately, squeezed together, moved a few | |
steps, and again stopped. | |
“Move on a hundred yards and we are certainly saved, remain here | |
another two minutes and it is certain death,” thought each one. | |
Dólokhov who was in the midst of the crowd forced his way to the edge | |
of the dam, throwing two soldiers off their feet, and ran onto the | |
slippery ice that covered the millpool. | |
“Turn this way!” he shouted, jumping over the ice which creaked | |
under him; “turn this way!” he shouted to those with the gun. “It | |
bears!...” | |
The ice bore him but it swayed and creaked, and it was plain that it | |
would give way not only under a cannon or a crowd, but very soon even | |
under his weight alone. The men looked at him and pressed to the | |
bank, hesitating to step onto the ice. The general on horseback at the | |
entrance to the dam raised his hand and opened his mouth to address | |
Dólokhov. Suddenly a cannon ball hissed so low above the crowd that | |
everyone ducked. It flopped into something moist, and the general fell | |
from his horse in a pool of blood. Nobody gave him a look or thought of | |
raising him. | |
“Get onto the ice, over the ice! Go on! Turn! Don’t you hear? Go | |
on!” innumerable voices suddenly shouted after the ball had struck | |
the general, the men themselves not knowing what, or why, they were | |
shouting. | |
One of the hindmost guns that was going onto the dam turned off onto the | |
ice. Crowds of soldiers from the dam began running onto the frozen pond. | |
The ice gave way under one of the foremost soldiers, and one leg slipped | |
into the water. He tried to right himself but fell in up to his waist. | |
The nearest soldiers shrank back, the gun driver stopped his horse, but | |
from behind still came the shouts: “Onto the ice, why do you stop? Go | |
on! Go on!” And cries of horror were heard in the crowd. The soldiers | |
near the gun waved their arms and beat the horses to make them turn and | |
move on. The horses moved off the bank. The ice, that had held under | |
those on foot, collapsed in a great mass, and some forty men who were on | |
it dashed, some forward and some back, drowning one another. | |
Still the cannon balls continued regularly to whistle and flop onto the | |
ice and into the water and oftenest of all among the crowd that covered | |
the dam, the pond, and the bank. | |
CHAPTER XIX | |
On the Pratzen Heights, where he had fallen with the flagstaff in his | |
hand, lay Prince Andrew Bolkónski bleeding profusely and unconsciously | |
uttering a gentle, piteous, and childlike moan. | |
Toward evening he ceased moaning and became quite still. He did not know | |
how long his unconsciousness lasted. Suddenly he again felt that he was | |
alive and suffering from a burning, lacerating pain in his head. | |
“Where is it, that lofty sky that I did not know till now, but saw | |
today?” was his first thought. “And I did not know this suffering | |
either,” he thought. “Yes, I did not know anything, anything at all | |
till now. But where am I?” | |
He listened and heard the sound of approaching horses, and voices | |
speaking French. He opened his eyes. Above him again was the same lofty | |
sky with clouds that had risen and were floating still higher, and | |
between them gleamed blue infinity. He did not turn his head and did not | |
see those who, judging by the sound of hoofs and voices, had ridden up | |
and stopped near him. | |
It was Napoleon accompanied by two aides-de-camp. Bonaparte riding | |
over the battlefield had given final orders to strengthen the batteries | |
firing at the Augesd Dam and was looking at the killed and wounded left | |
on the field. | |
“Fine men!” remarked Napoleon, looking at a dead Russian grenadier, | |
who, with his face buried in the ground and a blackened nape, lay on his | |
stomach with an already stiffened arm flung wide. | |
“The ammunition for the guns in position is exhausted, Your | |
Majesty,” said an adjutant who had come from the batteries that were | |
firing at Augesd. | |
“Have some brought from the reserve,” said Napoleon, and having gone | |
on a few steps he stopped before Prince Andrew, who lay on his back with | |
the flagstaff that had been dropped beside him. (The flag had already | |
been taken by the French as a trophy.) | |
“That’s a fine death!” said Napoleon as he gazed at Bolkónski. | |
Prince Andrew understood that this was said of him and that it was | |
Napoleon who said it. He heard the speaker addressed as Sire. But he | |
heard the words as he might have heard the buzzing of a fly. Not only | |
did they not interest him, but he took no notice of them and at once | |
forgot them. His head was burning, he felt himself bleeding to death, | |
and he saw above him the remote, lofty, and everlasting sky. He knew it | |
was Napoleon—his hero—but at that moment Napoleon seemed to him | |
such a small, insignificant creature compared with what was passing now | |
between himself and that lofty infinite sky with the clouds flying over | |
it. At that moment it meant nothing to him who might be standing over | |
him, or what was said of him; he was only glad that people were standing | |
near him and only wished that they would help him and bring him back to | |
life, which seemed to him so beautiful now that he had today learned to | |
understand it so differently. He collected all his strength, to stir and | |
utter a sound. He feebly moved his leg and uttered a weak, sickly groan | |
which aroused his own pity. | |
“Ah! He is alive,” said Napoleon. “Lift this young man up and | |
carry him to the dressing station.” | |
Having said this, Napoleon rode on to meet Marshal Lannes, who, hat in | |
hand, rode up smiling to the Emperor to congratulate him on the victory. | |
Prince Andrew remembered nothing more: he lost consciousness from the | |
terrible pain of being lifted onto the stretcher, the jolting while | |
being moved, and the probing of his wound at the dressing station. | |
He did not regain consciousness till late in the day, when with other | |
wounded and captured Russian officers he was carried to the hospital. | |
During this transfer he felt a little stronger and was able to look | |
about him and even speak. | |
The first words he heard on coming to his senses were those of a French | |
convoy officer, who said rapidly: “We must halt here: the Emperor | |
will pass here immediately; it will please him to see these gentlemen | |
prisoners.” | |
“There are so many prisoners today, nearly the whole Russian army, | |
that he is probably tired of them,” said another officer. | |
“All the same! They say this one is the commander of all the Emperor | |
Alexander’s Guards,” said the first one, indicating a Russian | |
officer in the white uniform of the Horse Guards. | |
Bolkónski recognized Prince Repnín whom he had met in Petersburg | |
society. Beside him stood a lad of nineteen, also a wounded officer of | |
the Horse Guards. | |
Bonaparte, having come up at a gallop, stopped his horse. | |
“Which is the senior?” he asked, on seeing the prisoners. | |
They named the colonel, Prince Repnín. | |
“You are the commander of the Emperor Alexander’s regiment of Horse | |
Guards?” asked Napoleon. | |
“I commanded a squadron,” replied Repnín. | |
“Your regiment fulfilled its duty honorably,” said Napoleon. | |
“The praise of a great commander is a soldier’s highest reward,” | |
said Repnín. | |
“I bestow it with pleasure,” said Napoleon. “And who is that young | |
man beside you?” | |
Prince Repnín named Lieutenant Sukhtélen. | |
After looking at him Napoleon smiled. | |
“He’s very young to come to meddle with us.” | |
“Youth is no hindrance to courage,” muttered Sukhtélen in a failing | |
voice. | |
“A splendid reply!” said Napoleon. “Young man, you will go far!” | |
Prince Andrew, who had also been brought forward before the Emperor’s | |
eyes to complete the show of prisoners, could not fail to attract his | |
attention. Napoleon apparently remembered seeing him on the battlefield | |
and, addressing him, again used the epithet “young man” that was | |
connected in his memory with Prince Andrew. | |
“Well, and you, young man,” said he. “How do you feel, mon | |
brave?” | |
Though five minutes before, Prince Andrew had been able to say a few | |
words to the soldiers who were carrying him, now with his eyes fixed | |
straight on Napoleon, he was silent.... So insignificant at that moment | |
seemed to him all the interests that engrossed Napoleon, so mean did his | |
hero himself with his paltry vanity and joy in victory appear, | |
compared to the lofty, equitable, and kindly sky which he had seen and | |
understood, that he could not answer him. | |
Everything seemed so futile and insignificant in comparison with the | |
stern and solemn train of thought that weakness from loss of blood, | |
suffering, and the nearness of death aroused in him. Looking into | |
Napoleon’s eyes Prince Andrew thought of the insignificance of | |
greatness, the unimportance of life which no one could understand, and | |
the still greater unimportance of death, the meaning of which no one | |
alive could understand or explain. | |
The Emperor without waiting for an answer turned away and said to one of | |
the officers as he went: “Have these gentlemen attended to and taken | |
to my bivouac; let my doctor, Larrey, examine their wounds. Au revoir, | |
Prince Repnín!” and he spurred his horse and galloped away. | |
His face shone with self-satisfaction and pleasure. | |
The soldiers who had carried Prince Andrew had noticed and taken the | |
little gold icon Princess Mary had hung round her brother’s neck, but | |
seeing the favor the Emperor showed the prisoners, they now hastened to | |
return the holy image. | |
Prince Andrew did not see how and by whom it was replaced, but the | |
little icon with its thin gold chain suddenly appeared upon his chest | |
outside his uniform. | |
“It would be good,” thought Prince Andrew, glancing at the icon his | |
sister had hung round his neck with such emotion and reverence, “it | |
would be good if everything were as clear and simple as it seems to | |
Mary. How good it would be to know where to seek for help in this life, | |
and what to expect after it beyond the grave! How happy and calm I | |
should be if I could now say: ‘Lord, have mercy on me!’... But to | |
whom should I say that? Either to a Power indefinable, incomprehensible, | |
which I not only cannot address but which I cannot even express in | |
words—the Great All or Nothing-” said he to himself, “or to | |
that God who has been sewn into this amulet by Mary! There is nothing | |
certain, nothing at all except the unimportance of everything I | |
understand, and the greatness of something incomprehensible but | |
all-important.” | |
The stretchers moved on. At every jolt he again felt unendurable pain; | |
his feverishness increased and he grew delirious. Visions of his father, | |
wife, sister, and future son, and the tenderness he had felt the night | |
before the battle, the figure of the insignificant little Napoleon, and | |
above all this the lofty sky, formed the chief subjects of his delirious | |
fancies. | |
The quiet home life and peaceful happiness of Bald Hills presented | |
itself to him. He was already enjoying that happiness when that | |
little Napoleon had suddenly appeared with his unsympathizing look of | |
shortsighted delight at the misery of others, and doubts and torments | |
had followed, and only the heavens promised peace. Toward morning | |
all these dreams melted and merged into the chaos and darkness of | |
unconciousness and oblivion which in the opinion of Napoleon’s doctor, | |
Larrey, was much more likely to end in death than in convalescence. | |
“He is a nervous, bilious subject,” said Larrey, “and will not | |
recover.” | |
And Prince Andrew, with others fatally wounded, was left to the care of | |
the inhabitants of the district. | |
BOOK FOUR: 1806 | |
CHAPTER I | |
Early in the year 1806 Nicholas Rostóv returned home on leave. Denísov | |
was going home to Vorónezh and Rostóv persuaded him to travel with him | |
as far as Moscow and to stay with him there. Meeting a comrade at | |
the last post station but one before Moscow, Denísov had drunk three | |
bottles of wine with him and, despite the jolting ruts across the | |
snow-covered road, did not once wake up on the way to Moscow, but lay | |
at the bottom of the sleigh beside Rostóv, who grew more and more | |
impatient the nearer they got to Moscow. | |
“How much longer? How much longer? Oh, these insufferable streets, | |
shops, bakers’ signboards, street lamps, and sleighs!” thought | |
Rostóv, when their leave permits had been passed at the town gate and | |
they had entered Moscow. | |
“Denísov! We’re here! He’s asleep,” he added, leaning forward | |
with his whole body as if in that position he hoped to hasten the speed | |
of the sleigh. | |
Denísov gave no answer. | |
“There’s the corner at the crossroads, where the cabman, Zakhár, | |
has his stand, and there’s Zakhár himself and still the same horse! | |
And here’s the little shop where we used to buy gingerbread! Can’t | |
you hurry up? Now then!” | |
“Which house is it?” asked the driver. | |
“Why, that one, right at the end, the big one. Don’t you see? | |
That’s our house,” said Rostóv. “Of course, it’s our house! | |
Denísov, Denísov! We’re almost there!” | |
Denísov raised his head, coughed, and made no answer. | |
“Dmítri,” said Rostóv to his valet on the box, “those lights are | |
in our house, aren’t they?” | |
“Yes, sir, and there’s a light in your father’s study.” | |
“Then they’ve not gone to bed yet? What do you think? Mind now, | |
don’t forget to put out my new coat,” added Rostóv, fingering his | |
new mustache. “Now then, get on,” he shouted to the driver. “Do | |
wake up, Váska!” he went on, turning to Denísov, whose head | |
was again nodding. “Come, get on! You shall have three rubles for | |
vodka—get on!” Rostóv shouted, when the sleigh was only three | |
houses from his door. It seemed to him the horses were not moving at | |
all. At last the sleigh bore to the right, drew up at an entrance, and | |
Rostóv saw overhead the old familiar cornice with a bit of plaster | |
broken off, the porch, and the post by the side of the pavement. He | |
sprang out before the sleigh stopped, and ran into the hall. The house | |
stood cold and silent, as if quite regardless of who had come to it. | |
There was no one in the hall. “Oh God! Is everyone all right?” | |
he thought, stopping for a moment with a sinking heart, and then | |
immediately starting to run along the hall and up the warped steps of | |
the familiar staircase. The well-known old door handle, which always | |
angered the countess when it was not properly cleaned, turned as loosely | |
as ever. A solitary tallow candle burned in the anteroom. | |
Old Michael was asleep on the chest. Prokófy, the footman, who was | |
so strong that he could lift the back of the carriage from behind, sat | |
plaiting slippers out of cloth selvedges. He looked up at the opening | |
door and his expression of sleepy indifference suddenly changed to one | |
of delighted amazement. | |
“Gracious heavens! The young count!” he cried, recognizing his | |
young master. “Can it be? My treasure!” and Prokófy, trembling with | |
excitement, rushed toward the drawing room door, probably in order to | |
announce him, but, changing his mind, came back and stooped to kiss the | |
young man’s shoulder. | |
“All well?” asked Rostóv, drawing away his arm. | |
“Yes, God be thanked! Yes! They’ve just finished supper. Let me have | |
a look at you, your excellency.” | |
“Is everything quite all right?” | |
“The Lord be thanked, yes!” | |
Rostóv, who had completely forgotten Denísov, not wishing anyone to | |
forestall him, threw off his fur coat and ran on tiptoe through the | |
large dark ballroom. All was the same: there were the same old card | |
tables and the same chandelier with a cover over it; but someone had | |
already seen the young master, and, before he had reached the drawing | |
room, something flew out from a side door like a tornado and began | |
hugging and kissing him. Another and yet another creature of the same | |
kind sprang from a second door and a third; more hugging, more kissing, | |
more outcries, and tears of joy. He could not distinguish which was | |
Papa, which Natásha, and which Pétya. Everyone shouted, talked, and | |
kissed him at the same time. Only his mother was not there, he noticed | |
that. | |
“And I did not know... Nicholas... My darling!...” | |
“Here he is... our own... Kólya, * dear fellow... How he has | |
changed!... Where are the candles?... Tea!...” | |
* Nicholas. | |
“And me, kiss me!” | |
“Dearest... and me!” | |
Sónya, Natásha, Pétya, Anna Mikháylovna, Véra, 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. | |
Pétya, clinging to his legs, kept shouting, “And me too!” | |
Natásha, after she had pulled him down toward her and covered his face | |
with kisses, holding him tight by the skirt of his coat, sprang away and | |
pranced up and down in one place like a goat and shrieked piercingly. | |
All around were loving eyes glistening with tears of joy, and all around | |
were lips seeking a kiss. | |
Sónya too, all rosy red, clung to his arm and, radiant with bliss, | |
looked eagerly toward his eyes, waiting for the look for which she | |
longed. Sónya now was sixteen and she was very pretty, especially at | |
this moment of happy, rapturous excitement. She gazed at him, not taking | |
her eyes off him, and smiling and holding her breath. He gave her a | |
grateful look, but was still expectant and looking for someone. The old | |
countess had not yet come. But now steps were heard at the door, steps | |
so rapid that they could hardly be his mother’s. | |
Yet it was she, dressed in a new gown which he did not know, made since | |
he had left. All the others let him go, and he ran to her. When they | |
met, she fell on his breast, sobbing. She could not lift her face, but | |
only pressed it to the cold braiding of his hussar’s jacket. Denísov, | |
who had come into the room unnoticed by anyone, stood there and wiped | |
his eyes at the sight. | |
“Vasíli Denísov, your son’s friend,” he said, introducing | |
himself to the count, who was looking inquiringly at him. | |
“You are most welcome! I know, I know,” said the count, kissing and | |
embracing Denísov. “Nicholas wrote us... Natásha, Véra, look! Here | |
is Denísov!” | |
The same happy, rapturous faces turned to the shaggy figure of Denísov. | |
“Darling Denísov!” screamed Natásha, beside herself with rapture, | |
springing to him, putting her arms round him, and kissing him. This | |
escapade made everybody feel confused. Denísov blushed too, but smiled | |
and, taking Natásha’s hand, kissed it. | |
Denísov was shown to the room prepared for him, and the Rostóvs all | |
gathered round Nicholas in the sitting room. | |
The old countess, not letting go of his hand and kissing it every | |
moment, sat beside him: the rest, crowding round him, watched every | |
movement, word, or look of his, never taking their blissfully adoring | |
eyes off him. His brother and sisters struggled for the places nearest | |
to him and disputed with one another who should bring him his tea, | |
handkerchief, and pipe. | |
Rostóv was very happy in the love they showed him; but the first | |
moment of meeting had been so beatific that his present joy seemed | |
insufficient, and he kept expecting something more, more and yet more. | |
Next morning, after the fatigues of their journey, the travelers slept | |
till ten o’clock. | |
In the room next their bedroom there was a confusion of sabers, | |
satchels, sabretaches, open portmanteaus, and dirty boots. Two freshly | |
cleaned pairs with spurs had just been placed by the wall. The servants | |
were bringing in jugs and basins, hot water for shaving, and their | |
well-brushed clothes. There was a masculine odor and a smell of tobacco. | |
“Hallo, Gwíska—my pipe!” came Vasíli Denísov’s husky voice. | |
“Wostóv, get up!” | |
Rostóv, rubbing his eyes that seemed glued together, raised his | |
disheveled head from the hot pillow. | |
“Why, is it late?” | |
“Late! It’s nearly ten o’clock,” answered Natásha’s voice. | |
A rustle of starched petticoats and the whispering and laughter of | |
girls’ voices came from the adjoining room. The door was opened a | |
crack and there was a glimpse of something blue, of ribbons, black hair, | |
and merry faces. It was Natásha, Sónya, and Pétya, who had come to | |
see whether they were getting up. | |
“Nicholas! Get up!” Natásha’s voice was again heard at the door. | |
“Directly!” | |
Meanwhile, Pétya, having found and seized the sabers in the outer room, | |
with the delight boys feel at the sight of a military elder brother, and | |
forgetting that it was unbecoming for the girls to see men undressed, | |
opened the bedroom door. | |
“Is this your saber?” he shouted. | |
The girls sprang aside. Denísov hid his hairy legs under the blanket, | |
looking with a scared face at his comrade for help. The door, having let | |
Pétya in, closed again. A sound of laughter came from behind it. | |
“Nicholas! Come out in your dressing gown!” said Natásha’s voice. | |
“Is this your saber?” asked Pétya. “Or is it yours?” he said, | |
addressing the black-mustached Denísov with servile deference. | |
Rostóv hurriedly put something on his feet, drew on his dressing gown, | |
and went out. Natásha had put on one spurred boot and was just getting | |
her foot into the other. Sónya, when he came in, was twirling round and | |
was about to expand her dresses into a balloon and sit down. They were | |
dressed alike, in new pale-blue frocks, and were both fresh, rosy, and | |
bright. Sónya ran away, but Natásha, taking her brother’s arm, led | |
him into the sitting room, where they began talking. They hardly gave | |
one another time to ask questions and give replies concerning a thousand | |
little matters which could not interest anyone but themselves. Natásha | |
laughed at every word he said or that she said herself, not because what | |
they were saying was amusing, but because she felt happy and was unable | |
to control her joy which expressed itself by laughter. | |
“Oh, how nice, how splendid!” she said to everything. | |
Rostóv felt that, under the influence of the warm rays of love, that | |
childlike smile which had not once appeared on his face since he left | |
home now for the first time after eighteen months again brightened his | |
soul and his face. | |
“No, but listen,” she said, “now you are quite a man, aren’t | |
you? I’m awfully glad you’re my brother.” She touched his | |
mustache. “I want to know what you men are like. Are you the same as | |
we? No?” | |
“Why did Sónya run away?” asked Rostóv. | |
“Ah, yes! That’s a whole long story! How are you going to speak to | |
her—thou or you?” | |
“As may happen,” said Rostóv. | |
“No, call her you, please! I’ll tell you all about it some other | |
time. No, I’ll tell you now. You know Sónya’s my dearest friend. | |
Such a friend that I burned my arm for her sake. Look here!” | |
She pulled up her muslin sleeve and showed him a red scar on her long, | |
slender, delicate arm, high above the elbow on that part that is covered | |
even by a ball dress. | |
“I burned this to prove my love for her. I just heated a ruler in the | |
fire and pressed it there!” | |
Sitting on the sofa with the little cushions on its arms, in what used | |
to be his old schoolroom, and looking into Natásha’s wildly bright | |
eyes, Rostóv re-entered that world of home and childhood which had no | |
meaning for anyone else, but gave him some of the best joys of his life; | |
and the burning of an arm with a ruler as a proof of love did not seem | |
to him senseless, he understood and was not surprised at it. | |
“Well, and is that all?” he asked. | |
“We are such friends, such friends! All that ruler business was just | |
nonsense, but we are friends forever. She, if she loves anyone, does it | |
for life, but I don’t understand that, I forget quickly.” | |
“Well, what then?” | |
“Well, she loves me and you like that.” | |
Natásha suddenly flushed. | |
“Why, you remember before you went away?... Well, she says you are to | |
forget all that.... She says: ‘I shall love him always, but let him be | |
free.’ Isn’t that lovely and noble! Yes, very noble? Isn’t it?” | |
asked Natásha, so seriously and excitedly that it was evident that what | |
she was now saying she had talked of before, with tears. | |
Rostóv became thoughtful. | |
“I never go back on my word,” he said. “Besides, Sónya is so | |
charming that only a fool would renounce such happiness.” | |
“No, no!” cried Natásha, “she and I have already talked it over. | |
We knew you’d say so. But it won’t do, because you see, if you say | |
that—if you consider yourself bound by your promise—it will seem as | |
if she had not meant it seriously. It makes it as if you were marrying | |
her because you must, and that wouldn’t do at all.” | |
Rostóv saw that it had been well considered by them. Sónya had already | |
struck him by her beauty on the preceding day. Today, when he had caught | |
a glimpse of her, she seemed still more lovely. She was a charming girl | |
of sixteen, evidently passionately in love with him (he did not doubt | |
that for an instant). Why should he not love her now, and even marry | |
her, Rostóv thought, but just now there were so many other pleasures | |
and interests before him! “Yes, they have taken a wise decision,” he | |
thought, “I must remain free.” | |
“Well then, that’s excellent,” said he. “We’ll talk it over | |
later on. Oh, how glad I am to have you!” | |
“Well, and are you still true to Borís?” he continued. | |
“Oh, what nonsense!” cried Natásha, laughing. “I don’t think | |
about him or anyone else, and I don’t want anything of the kind.” | |
“Dear me! Then what are you up to now?” | |
“Now?” repeated Natásha, and a happy smile lit up her face. “Have | |
you seen Duport?” | |
“No.” | |
“Not seen Duport—the famous dancer? Well then, you won’t | |
understand. That’s what I’m up to.” | |
Curving her arms, Natásha held out her skirts as dancers do, ran back | |
a few steps, turned, cut a caper, brought her little feet sharply | |
together, and made some steps on the very tips of her toes. | |
“See, I’m standing! See!” she said, but could not maintain herself | |
on her toes any longer. “So that’s what I’m up to! I’ll never | |
marry anyone, but will be a dancer. Only don’t tell anyone.” | |
Rostóv laughed so loud and merrily that Denísov, in his bedroom, felt | |
envious and Natásha could not help joining in. | |
“No, but don’t you think it’s nice?” she kept repeating. | |
“Nice! And so you no longer wish to marry Borís?” | |
Natásha flared up. “I don’t want to marry anyone. And I’ll tell | |
him so when I see him!” | |
“Dear me!” said Rostóv. | |
“But that’s all rubbish,” Natásha chattered on. “And is | |
Denísov nice?” she asked. | |
“Yes, indeed!” | |
“Oh, well then, good-by: go and dress. Is he very terrible, | |
Denísov?” | |
“Why terrible?” asked Nicholas. “No, Váska is a splendid | |
fellow.” | |
“You call him Váska? That’s funny! And is he very nice?” | |
“Very.” | |
“Well then, be quick. We’ll all have breakfast together.” | |
And Natásha rose and went out of the room on tiptoe, like a ballet | |
dancer, but smiling as only happy girls of fifteen can smile. When | |
Rostóv met Sónya in the drawing room, he reddened. He did not know | |
how to behave with her. The evening before, in the first happy moment of | |
meeting, they had kissed each other, but today they felt it could not | |
be done; he felt that everybody, including his mother and sisters, was | |
looking inquiringly at him and watching to see how he would behave | |
with her. He kissed her hand and addressed her not as thou but as | |
you—Sónya. But their eyes met and said thou, and exchanged tender | |
kisses. Her looks asked him to forgive her for having dared, by | |
Natásha’s intermediacy, to remind him of his promise, and then | |
thanked him for his love. His looks thanked her for offering him his | |
freedom and told her that one way or another he would never cease to | |
love her, for that would be impossible. | |
“How strange it is,” said Véra, selecting a moment when all were | |
silent, “that Sónya and Nicholas now say you to one another and meet | |
like strangers.” | |
Véra’s remark was correct, as her remarks always were, but, like | |
most of her observations, it made everyone feel uncomfortable, not | |
only Sónya, Nicholas, and Natásha, but even the old countess, | |
who—dreading this love affair which might hinder Nicholas from making | |
a brilliant match—blushed like a girl. | |
Denísov, to Rostóv’s surprise, appeared in the drawing room with | |
pomaded hair, perfumed, and in a new uniform, looking just as smart as | |
he made himself when going into battle, and he was more amiable to the | |
ladies and gentlemen than Rostóv had ever expected to see him. | |
CHAPTER II | |
On his return to Moscow from the army, Nicholas Rostóv was welcomed | |
by his home circle as the best of sons, a hero, and their darling | |
Nikólenka; by his relations as a charming, attractive, and polite young | |
man; by his acquaintances as a handsome lieutenant of hussars, a good | |
dancer, and one of the best matches in the city. | |
The Rostóvs knew everybody in Moscow. The old count had money enough | |
that year, as all his estates had been remortgaged, and so Nicholas, | |
acquiring a trotter of his own, very stylish riding breeches of the | |
latest cut, such as no one else yet had in Moscow, and boots of the | |
latest fashion, with extremely pointed toes and small silver spurs, | |
passed his time very gaily. After a short period of adapting himself | |
to the old conditions of life, Nicholas found it very pleasant to be | |
at home again. He felt that he had grown up and matured very much. His | |
despair at failing in a Scripture examination, his borrowing money from | |
Gavríl to pay a sleigh driver, his kissing Sónya on the sly—he now | |
recalled all this as childishness he had left immeasurably behind. | |
Now he was a lieutenant of hussars, in a jacket laced with silver, and | |
wearing the Cross of St. George, awarded to soldiers for bravery in | |
action, and in the company of well-known, elderly, and respected racing | |
men was training a trotter of his own for a race. He knew a lady on one | |
of the boulevards whom he visited of an evening. He led the mazurka | |
at the Arkhárovs’ ball, talked about the war with Field Marshal | |
Kámenski, visited the English Club, and was on intimate terms with a | |
colonel of forty to whom Denísov had introduced him. | |
His passion for the Emperor had cooled somewhat in Moscow. But still, as | |
he did not see him and had no opportunity of seeing him, he often spoke | |
about him and about his love for him, letting it be understood that he | |
had not told all and that there was something in his feelings for the | |
Emperor not everyone could understand, and with his whole soul he shared | |
the adoration then common in Moscow for the Emperor, who was spoken of | |
as the “angel incarnate.” | |
During Rostóv’s short stay in Moscow, before rejoining the army, he | |
did not draw closer to Sónya, but rather drifted away from her. She was | |
very pretty and sweet, and evidently deeply in love with him, but he was | |
at the period of youth when there seems so much to do that there is no | |
time for that sort of thing and a young man fears to bind himself and | |
prizes his freedom which he needs for so many other things. When he | |
thought of Sónya, during this stay in Moscow, he said to himself, | |
“Ah, there will be, and there are, many more such girls somewhere whom | |
I do not yet know. There will be time enough to think about love when I | |
want to, but now I have no time.” Besides, it seemed to him that the | |
society of women was rather derogatory to his manhood. He went to balls | |
and into ladies’ society with an affectation of doing so against his | |
will. The races, the English Club, sprees with Denísov, and visits to | |
a certain house—that was another matter and quite the thing for a | |
dashing young hussar! | |
At the beginning of March, old Count Ilyá Rostóv was very busy | |
arranging a dinner in honor of Prince Bagratión at the English Club. | |
The count walked up and down the hall in his dressing gown, giving | |
orders to the club steward and to the famous Feoktíst, the club’s | |
head cook, about asparagus, fresh cucumbers, strawberries, veal, and | |
fish for this dinner. The count had been a member and on the committee | |
of the club from the day it was founded. To him the club entrusted the | |
arrangement of the festival in honor of Bagratión, for few men knew | |
so well how to arrange a feast on an open-handed, hospitable scale, | |
and still fewer men would be so well able and willing to make up out of | |
their own resources what might be needed for the success of the fete. | |
The club cook and the steward listened to the count’s orders with | |
pleased faces, for they knew that under no other management could they | |
so easily extract a good profit for themselves from a dinner costing | |
several thousand rubles. | |
“Well then, mind and have cocks’ comb in the turtle soup, you | |
know!” | |
“Shall we have three cold dishes then?” asked the cook. | |
The count considered. | |
“We can’t have less—yes, three... the mayonnaise, that’s one,” | |
said he, bending down a finger. | |
“Then am I to order those large sterlets?” asked the steward. | |
“Yes, it can’t be helped if they won’t take less. Ah, dear me! I | |
was forgetting. We must have another entrée. Ah, goodness gracious!” | |
he clutched at his head. “Who is going to get me the flowers? Dmítri! | |
Eh, Dmítri! Gallop off to our Moscow estate,” he said to the factotum | |
who appeared at his call. “Hurry off and tell Maksím, the gardener, | |
to set the serfs to work. Say that everything out of the hothouses must | |
be brought here well wrapped up in felt. I must have two hundred pots | |
here on Friday.” | |
Having given several more orders, he was about to go to his “little | |
countess” to have a rest, but remembering something else of | |
importance, he returned again, called back the cook and the club | |
steward, and again began giving orders. 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. | |
“Ah, my boy, my head’s in a whirl!” said the old man with a smile, | |
as if he felt a little confused before his son. “Now, if you would | |
only help a bit! I must have singers too. I shall have my own orchestra, | |
but shouldn’t we get the gypsy singers as well? You military men like | |
that sort of thing.” | |
“Really, Papa, I believe Prince Bagratión worried himself less before | |
the battle of Schön Grabern than you do now,” said his son with a | |
smile. | |
The old count pretended to be angry. | |
“Yes, you talk, but try it yourself!” | |
And the count turned to the cook, who, with a shrewd and respectful | |
expression, looked observantly and sympathetically at the father and | |
son. | |
“What have the young people come to nowadays, eh, Feoktíst?” said | |
he. “Laughing at us old fellows!” | |
“That’s so, your excellency, all they have to do is to eat a good | |
dinner, but providing it and serving it all up, that’s not their | |
business!” | |
“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 Bezúkhov’s, and tell him ‘Count | |
Ilyá has sent you to ask for strawberries and fresh pineapples.’ We | |
can’t get them from anyone else. He’s not there himself, so you’ll | |
have to go in and ask the princesses; and from there go on to the | |
Rasgulyáy—the coachman Ipátka knows—and look up the gypsy | |
Ilyúshka, the one who danced at Count Orlóv’s, you remember, in a | |
white Cossack coat, and bring him along to me.” | |
“And am I to bring the gypsy girls along with him?” asked Nicholas, | |
laughing. “Dear, dear!...” | |
At that moment, with noiseless footsteps and with the businesslike, | |
preoccupied, yet meekly Christian look which never left her face, Anna | |
Mikháylovna entered the hall. 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. “But I’ll go to Bezúkhov’s myself. Pierre has arrived, and | |
now we shall get anything we want from his hothouses. I have to see him | |
in any case. He has forwarded me a letter from Borís. Thank God, Borís | |
is now on the staff.” | |
The count was delighted at Anna Mikháylovna’s taking upon herself one | |
of his commissions and ordered the small closed carriage for her. | |
“Tell Bezúkhov to come. I’ll put his name down. Is his wife with | |
him?” he asked. | |
Anna Mikháylovna turned up her eyes, and profound sadness was depicted | |
on her face. | |
“Ah, my dear friend, he is very unfortunate,” she said. “If what | |
we hear is true, it is dreadful. How little we dreamed of such a thing | |
when we were rejoicing at his happiness! And such a lofty angelic soul | |
as young Bezúkhov! Yes, I pity him from my heart, and shall try to give | |
him what consolation I can.” | |
“Wh-what is the matter?” asked both the young and old Rostóv. | |
Anna Mikháylovna sighed deeply. | |
“Dólokhov, Mary Ivánovna’s son,” she said in a mysterious | |
whisper, “has compromised her completely, they say. Pierre took him | |
up, invited him to his house in Petersburg, and now... she has come here | |
and that daredevil after her!” said Anna Mikháylovna, wishing to show | |
her sympathy for Pierre, but by involuntary intonations and a half smile | |
betraying her sympathy for the “daredevil,” as she called Dólokhov. | |
“They say Pierre is quite broken by his misfortune.” | |
“Dear, dear! But still tell him to come to the club—it will all blow | |
over. It will be a tremendous banquet.” | |
Next day, the third of March, soon after one o’clock, two hundred and | |
fifty members of the English Club and fifty guests were awaiting the | |
guest of honor and hero of the Austrian campaign, Prince Bagratión, to | |
dinner. | |
On the first arrival of the news of the battle of Austerlitz, Moscow had | |
been bewildered. At that time, the Russians were so used to victories | |
that on receiving news of the defeat some would simply not believe it, | |
while others sought some extraordinary explanation of so strange an | |
event. In the English Club, where all who were distinguished, important, | |
and well informed foregathered when the news began to arrive in | |
December, nothing was said about the war and the last battle, as | |
though all were in a conspiracy of silence. The men who set the tone | |
in conversation—Count Rostopchín, Prince Yúri Dolgorúkov, Valúev, | |
Count Markóv, and Prince Vyázemski—did not show themselves at the | |
club, but met in private houses in intimate circles, and the | |
Moscovites who took their opinions from others—Ilyá Rostóv among | |
them—remained for a while without any definite opinion on the subject | |
of the war and without leaders. The Moscovites felt that something was | |
wrong and that to discuss the bad news was difficult, and so it was best | |
to be silent. But after a while, just as a jury comes out of its room, | |
the bigwigs who guided the club’s opinion reappeared, and everybody | |
began speaking clearly and definitely. Reasons were found for the | |
incredible, unheard-of, and impossible event of a Russian defeat, | |
everything became clear, and in all corners of Moscow the same things | |
began to be said. These reasons were the treachery of the Austrians, a | |
defective commissariat, the treachery of the Pole Przebyszéwski and of | |
the Frenchman Langeron, Kutúzov’s incapacity, and (it was whispered) | |
the youth and inexperience of the sovereign, who had trusted worthless | |
and insignificant people. But the army, the Russian army, everyone | |
declared, was extraordinary and had achieved miracles of valor. The | |
soldiers, officers, and generals were heroes. But the hero of heroes was | |
Prince Bagratión, distinguished by his Schön Grabern affair and by | |
the retreat from Austerlitz, where he alone had withdrawn his column | |
unbroken and had all day beaten back an enemy force twice as numerous | |
as his own. What also conduced to Bagratión’s being selected as | |
Moscow’s hero was the fact that he had no connections in the city | |
and was a stranger there. In his person, honor was shown to a simple | |
fighting Russian soldier without connections and intrigues, and to one | |
who was associated by memories of the Italian campaign with the name of | |
Suvórov. Moreover, paying such honor to Bagratión was the best way of | |
expressing disapproval and dislike of Kutúzov. | |
“Had there been no Bagratión, it would have been necessary to | |
invent him,” said the wit Shinshín, parodying the words of Voltaire. | |
Kutúzov no one spoke of, except some who abused him in whispers, | |
calling him a court weathercock and an old satyr. | |
All Moscow repeated Prince Dolgorúkov’s saying: “If you go on | |
modeling and modeling you must get smeared with clay,” suggesting | |
consolation for our defeat by the memory of former victories; and the | |
words of Rostopchín, that French soldiers have to be incited to battle | |
by highfalutin words, and Germans by logical arguments to show them | |
that it is more dangerous to run away than to advance, but that Russian | |
soldiers only need to be restrained and held back! On all sides, new and | |
fresh anecdotes were heard of individual examples of heroism shown by | |
our officers and men at Austerlitz. One had saved a standard, another | |
had killed five Frenchmen, a third had loaded five cannon singlehanded. | |
Berg was mentioned, by those who did not know him, as having, when | |
wounded in the right hand, taken his sword in the left, and gone | |
forward. Of Bolkónski, nothing was said, and only those who knew him | |
intimately regretted that he had died so young, leaving a pregnant wife | |
with his eccentric father. | |
CHAPTER III | |
On that third of March, all the rooms in the English Club were filled | |
with a hum of conversation, like the hum of bees swarming in springtime. | |
The members and guests of the club wandered hither and thither, sat, | |
stood, met, and separated, some in uniform and some in evening dress, | |
and a few here and there with powdered hair and in Russian kaftáns. | |
Powdered footmen, in livery with buckled shoes and smart stockings, | |
stood at every door anxiously noting visitors’ every movement in order | |
to offer their services. Most of those present were elderly, respected | |
men with broad, self-confident faces, fat fingers, and resolute gestures | |
and voices. This class of guests and members sat in certain habitual | |
places and met in certain habitual groups. A minority of those present | |
were casual guests—chiefly young men, among whom were Denísov, | |
Rostóv, and Dólokhov—who was now again an officer in the Semënov | |
regiment. The faces of these young people, especially those who were | |
military men, bore that expression of condescending respect for their | |
elders which seems to say to the older generation, “We are prepared to | |
respect and honor you, but all the same remember that the future belongs | |
to us.” | |
Nesvítski was there as an old member of the club. Pierre, who at his | |
wife’s command had let his hair grow and abandoned his spectacles, | |
went about the rooms fashionably dressed but looking sad and dull. Here, | |
as elsewhere, he was surrounded by an atmosphere of subservience to | |
his wealth, and being in the habit of lording it over these people, he | |
treated them with absent-minded contempt. | |
By his age he should have belonged to the younger men, but by his wealth | |
and connections he belonged to the groups of old and honored guests, and | |
so he went from one group to another. Some of the most important old men | |
were the center of groups which even strangers approached respectfully | |
to hear the voices of well-known men. The largest circles formed round | |
Count Rostopchín, Valúev, and Narýshkin. Rostopchín was describing | |
how the Russians had been overwhelmed by flying Austrians and had had to | |
force their way through them with bayonets. | |
Valúev was confidentially telling that Uvárov had been sent from | |
Petersburg to ascertain what Moscow was thinking about Austerlitz. | |
In the third circle, Narýshkin was speaking of the meeting of the | |
Austrian Council of War at which Suvórov crowed like a cock in reply to | |
the nonsense talked by the Austrian generals. Shinshín, standing close | |
by, tried to make a joke, saying that Kutúzov had evidently failed to | |
learn from Suvórov even so simple a thing as the art of crowing like a | |
cock, but the elder members glanced severely at the wit, making him | |
feel that in that place and on that day, it was improper to speak so of | |
Kutúzov. | |
Count Ilyá Rostóv, hurried and preoccupied, went about in his soft | |
boots between the dining and drawing rooms, hastily greeting the | |
important and unimportant, all of whom he knew, as if they were all | |
equals, while his eyes occasionally sought out his fine well-set-up | |
young son, resting on him and winking joyfully at him. Young Rostóv | |
stood at a window with Dólokhov, whose acquaintance he had lately | |
made and highly valued. The old count came up to them and pressed | |
Dólokhov’s hand. | |
“Please come and visit us... you know my brave boy... been together | |
out there... both playing the hero... Ah, Vasíli Ignátovich... | |
How d’ye do, old fellow?” he said, turning to an old man who was | |
passing, but before he had finished his greeting there was a general | |
stir, and a footman who had run in announced, with a frightened face: | |
“He’s arrived!” | |
Bells rang, the stewards rushed forward, and—like rye shaken together | |
in a shovel—the guests who had been scattered about in different rooms | |
came together and crowded in the large drawing room by the door of the | |
ballroom. | |
Bagratión appeared in the doorway of the anteroom without hat or sword, | |
which, in accord with the club custom, he had given up to the hall | |
porter. He had no lambskin cap on his head, nor had he a loaded whip | |
over his shoulder, as when Rostóv had seen him on the eve of the battle | |
of Austerlitz, but wore a tight new uniform with Russian and foreign | |
Orders, and the Star of St. George on his left breast. Evidently just | |
before coming to the dinner he had had his hair and whiskers trimmed, | |
which changed his appearance for the worse. There was something naïvely | |
festive in his air, which, in conjunction with his firm and virile | |
features, gave him a rather comical expression. Bekleshëv and Theodore | |
Uvárov, who had arrived with him, paused at the doorway to allow him, | |
as the guest of honor, to enter first. Bagratión was embarrassed, not | |
wishing to avail himself of their courtesy, and this caused some delay | |
at the doors, but after all he did at last enter first. He walked shyly | |
and awkwardly over the parquet floor of the reception room, not knowing | |
what to do with his hands; he was more accustomed to walk over a plowed | |
field under fire, as he had done at the head of the Kursk regiment at | |
Schön Grabern—and he would have found that easier. The committeemen | |
met him at the first door and, expressing their delight at seeing such a | |
highly honored guest, took possession of him as it were, without waiting | |
for his reply, surrounded him, and led him to the drawing room. It was | |
at first impossible to enter the drawing room door for the crowd of | |
members and guests jostling one another and trying to get a good look | |
at Bagratión over each other’s shoulders, as if he were some rare | |
animal. Count Ilyá Rostóv, laughing and repeating the words, “Make | |
way, dear boy! Make way, make way!” pushed through the crowd more | |
energetically than anyone, led the guests into the drawing room, and | |
seated them on the center sofa. The bigwigs, the most respected members | |
of the club, beset the new arrivals. Count Ilyá, 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 Bagratión. On the salver lay some verses | |
composed and printed in the hero’s honor. Bagratión, on seeing the | |
salver, glanced around in dismay, as though seeking help. But all eyes | |
demanded that he should submit. Feeling himself in their power, he | |
resolutely took the salver with both hands and looked sternly and | |
reproachfully at the count who had presented it to him. Someone | |
obligingly took the dish from Bagratión (or he would, it seemed, have | |
held it till evening and have gone in to dinner with it) and drew his | |
attention to the verses. | |
“Well, I will read them, then!” Bagratión seemed to say, and, | |
fixing his weary eyes on the paper, began to read them with a fixed and | |
serious expression. But the author himself took the verses and began | |
reading them aloud. Bagratión bowed his head and listened: | |
Bring glory then to Alexander’s reign | |
And on the throne our Titus shield. | |
A dreaded foe be thou, kindhearted as a man, | |
A Rhipheus at home, a Caesar in the field! | |
E’en fortunate Napoleon | |
Knows by experience, now, Bagratión, | |
And dare not Herculean Russians trouble... | |
But before he had finished reading, a stentorian major-domo announced | |
that dinner was ready! The door opened, and from the dining room came | |
the resounding strains of the polonaise: | |
Conquest’s joyful thunder waken, | |
Triumph, valiant Russians, now!... | |
and Count Rostóv, glancing angrily at the author who went on reading | |
his verses, bowed to Bagratión. Everyone rose, feeling that dinner | |
was more important than verses, and Bagratión, again preceding all the | |
rest, went in to dinner. He was seated in the place of honor between | |
two Alexanders—Bekleshëv and Narýshkin—which was a significant | |
allusion to the name of the sovereign. Three hundred persons took their | |
seats in the dining room, according to their rank and importance: the | |
more important nearer to the honored guest, as naturally as water flows | |
deepest where the land lies lowest. | |
Just before dinner, Count Ilyá Rostóv presented his son to Bagratión, | |
who recognized him and said a few words to him, disjointed and awkward, | |
as were all the words he spoke that day, and Count Ilyá looked joyfully | |
and proudly around while Bagratión spoke to his son. | |
Nicholas Rostóv, with Denísov and his new acquaintance, Dólokhov, sat | |
almost at the middle of the table. Facing them sat Pierre, beside Prince | |
Nesvítski. Count Ilyá Rostóv with the other members of the committee | |
sat facing Bagratión 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. He winked at the butler, whispered directions to the | |
footmen, and awaited each expected dish with some anxiety. Everything | |
was excellent. With the second course, a gigantic sterlet (at sight of | |
which Ilyá Rostóv blushed with self-conscious pleasure), the footmen | |
began popping corks and filling the champagne glasses. After the fish, | |
which made a certain sensation, the count exchanged glances with | |
the other committeemen. “There will be many toasts, it’s time to | |
begin,” he whispered, and taking up his glass, he rose. All were | |
silent, waiting for what he would say. | |
“To the health of our Sovereign, the Emperor!” he cried, and at the | |
same moment his kindly eyes grew moist with tears of joy and enthusiasm. | |
The band immediately struck up “Conquest’s joyful thunder | |
waken...” All rose and cried “Hurrah!” Bagratión also rose and | |
shouted “Hurrah!” in exactly the same voice in which he had shouted | |
it on the field at Schön Grabern. Young Rostóv’s ecstatic voice | |
could be heard above the three hundred others. He nearly wept. “To the | |
health of our Sovereign, the Emperor!” he roared, “Hurrah!” and | |
emptying his glass at one gulp he dashed it to the floor. Many followed | |
his example, and the loud shouting continued for a long time. When the | |
voices subsided, the footmen cleared away the broken glass and everybody | |
sat down again, smiling at the noise they had made and exchanging | |
remarks. 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 Ivánovich Bagratión!” and again his blue | |
eyes grew moist. “Hurrah!” cried the three hundred voices again, | |
but instead of the band a choir began singing a cantata composed by Paul | |
Ivánovich Kutúzov: | |
Russians! O’er all barriers on! | |
Courage conquest guarantees; | |
Have we not Bagratión? | |
He brings foemen to their knees,... etc. | |
As soon as the singing was over, another and another toast was proposed | |
and Count Ilyá Rostóv became more and more moved, more glass was | |
smashed, and the shouting grew louder. They drank to Bekleshëv, | |
Narýshkin, Uvárov, Dolgorúkov, Apráksin, Valúev, to the committee, | |
to all the club members and to all the club guests, and finally to | |
Count Ilyá Rostóv separately, as the organizer of the banquet. At that | |
toast, the count took out his handkerchief and, covering his face, wept | |
outright. | |
CHAPTER IV | |
Pierre sat opposite Dólokhov and Nicholas Rostóv. As usual, he ate and | |
drank much, and eagerly. But those who knew him intimately noticed that | |
some great change had come over him that day. He was silent all through | |
dinner and looked about, blinking and scowling, or, with fixed eyes and | |
a look of complete absent-mindedness, kept rubbing the bridge of his | |
nose. His face was depressed and gloomy. He seemed to see and hear | |
nothing of what was going on around him and to be absorbed by some | |
depressing and unsolved problem. | |
The unsolved problem that tormented him was caused by hints given by the | |
princess, his cousin, at Moscow, concerning Dólokhov’s intimacy with | |
his wife, and by an anonymous letter he had received that morning, which | |
in the mean jocular way common to anonymous letters said that he saw | |
badly through his spectacles, but that his wife’s connection with | |
Dólokhov was a secret to no one but himself. Pierre absolutely | |
disbelieved both the princess’ hints and the letter, but he feared | |
now to look at Dólokhov, who was sitting opposite him. Every time | |
he chanced to meet Dólokhov’s handsome insolent eyes, Pierre felt | |
something terrible and monstrous rising in his soul and turned quickly | |
away. Involuntarily recalling his wife’s past and her relations with | |
Dólokhov, Pierre saw clearly that what was said in the letter might be | |
true, or might at least seem to be true had it not referred to his wife. | |
He involuntarily remembered how Dólokhov, who had fully recovered his | |
former position after the campaign, had returned to Petersburg and come | |
to him. Availing himself of his friendly relations with Pierre as a boon | |
companion, Dólokhov had come straight to his house, and Pierre had put | |
him up and lent him money. Pierre recalled how Hélène had smilingly | |
expressed disapproval of Dólokhov’s living at their house, and how | |
cynically Dólokhov had praised his wife’s beauty to him and from that | |
time till they came to Moscow had not left them for a day. | |
“Yes, he is very handsome,” thought Pierre, “and I know him. It | |
would be particularly pleasant to him to dishonor my name and ridicule | |
me, just because I have exerted myself on his behalf, befriended him, | |
and helped him. I know and understand what a spice that would add to the | |
pleasure of deceiving me, if it really were true. Yes, if it were true, | |
but I do not believe it. I have no right to, and can’t, believe it.” | |
He remembered the expression Dólokhov’s face assumed in his moments | |
of cruelty, as when tying the policeman to the bear and dropping them | |
into the water, or when he challenged a man to a duel without any | |
reason, or shot a post-boy’s horse with a pistol. That expression | |
was often on Dólokhov’s face when looking at him. “Yes, he is a | |
bully,” thought Pierre, “to kill a man means nothing to him. It must | |
seem to him that everyone is afraid of him, and that must please him. | |
He must think that I, too, am afraid of him—and in fact I am afraid of | |
him,” he thought, and again he felt something terrible and monstrous | |
rising in his soul. Dólokhov, Denísov, and Rostóv were now sitting | |
opposite Pierre and seemed very gay. Rostóv was talking merrily to his | |
two friends, one of whom was a dashing hussar and the other a notorious | |
duelist and rake, and every now and then he glanced ironically at | |
Pierre, whose preoccupied, absent-minded, and massive figure was a very | |
noticeable one at the dinner. Rostóv looked inimically at Pierre, | |
first because Pierre appeared to his hussar eyes as a rich civilian, the | |
husband of a beauty, and in a word—an old woman; and secondly because | |
Pierre in his preoccupation and absent-mindedness had not recognized | |
Rostóv and had not responded to his greeting. When the Emperor’s | |
health was drunk, Pierre, lost in thought, did not rise or lift his | |
glass. | |
“What are you about?” shouted Rostóv, looking at him in an ecstasy | |
of exasperation. “Don’t you hear it’s His Majesty the Emperor’s | |
health?” | |
Pierre sighed, rose submissively, emptied his glass, and, waiting till | |
all were seated again, turned with his kindly smile to Rostóv. | |
“Why, I didn’t recognize you!” he said. But Rostóv was otherwise | |
engaged; he was shouting “Hurrah!” | |
“Why don’t you renew the acquaintance?” said Dólokhov to Rostóv. | |
“Confound him, he’s a fool!” said Rostóv. | |
“One should make up to the husbands of pretty women,” said Denísov. | |
Pierre did not catch what they were saying, but knew they were talking | |
about him. He reddened and turned away. | |
“Well, now to the health of handsome women!” said Dólokhov, and | |
with a serious expression, but with a smile lurking at the corners of | |
his mouth, he turned with his glass to Pierre. | |
“Here’s to the health of lovely women, Peterkin—and their | |
lovers!” he added. | |
Pierre, with downcast eyes, drank out of his glass without looking at | |
Dólokhov or answering him. The footman, who was distributing leaflets | |
with Kutúzov’s cantata, laid one before Pierre as one of the | |
principal guests. He was just going to take it when Dólokhov, leaning | |
across, snatched it from his hand and began reading it. Pierre looked | |
at Dólokhov and his eyes dropped, the something terrible and monstrous | |
that had tormented him all dinnertime rose and took possession of him. | |
He leaned his whole massive body across the table. | |
“How dare you take it?” he shouted. | |
Hearing that cry and seeing to whom it was addressed, Nesvítski and the | |
neighbor on his right quickly turned in alarm to Bezúkhov. | |
“Don’t! Don’t! What are you about?” whispered their frightened | |
voices. | |
Dólokhov looked at Pierre with clear, mirthful, cruel eyes, and that | |
smile of his which seemed to say, “Ah! This is what I like!” | |
“You shan’t have it!” he said distinctly. | |
Pale, with quivering lips, Pierre snatched the copy. | |
“You...! you... scoundrel! I challenge you!” he ejaculated, and, | |
pushing back his chair, he rose from the table. | |
At the very instant he did this and uttered those words, Pierre felt | |
that the question of his wife’s guilt which had been tormenting him | |
the whole day was finally and indubitably answered in the affirmative. | |
He hated her and was forever sundered from her. Despite Denísov’s | |
request that he would take no part in the matter, Rostóv agreed to be | |
Dólokhov’s second, and after dinner he discussed the arrangements for | |
the duel with Nesvítski, Bezúkhov’s second. Pierre went home, but | |
Rostóv with Dólokhov and Denísov stayed on at the club till late, | |
listening to the gypsies and other singers. | |
“Well then, till tomorrow at Sokólniki,” said Dólokhov, as he took | |
leave of Rostóv in the club porch. | |
“And do you feel quite calm?” Rostóv asked. | |
Dólokhov paused. | |
“Well, you see, I’ll tell you the whole secret of dueling in two | |
words. If you are going to fight a duel, and you make a will and write | |
affectionate letters to your parents, and if you think you may be | |
killed, you are a fool and are lost for certain. But go with the firm | |
intention of killing your man as quickly and surely as possible, and | |
then all will be right, as our bear huntsman at Kostromá used to tell | |
me. ‘Everyone fears a bear,’ he says, ‘but when you see one your | |
fear’s all gone, and your only thought is not to let him get away!’ | |
And that’s how it is with me. À demain, mon cher.” * | |
* Till tomorrow, my dear fellow. | |
Next day, at eight in the morning, Pierre and Nesvítski drove to the | |
Sokólniki forest and found Dólokhov, Denísov, and Rostóv already | |
there. Pierre had the air of a man preoccupied with considerations which | |
had no connection with the matter in hand. His haggard face was yellow. | |
He had evidently not slept that night. He looked about distractedly and | |
screwed up his eyes as if dazzled by the sun. He was entirely absorbed | |
by two considerations: his wife’s guilt, of which after his sleepless | |
night he had not the slightest doubt, and the guiltlessness of | |
Dólokhov, who had no reason to preserve the honor of a man who was | |
nothing to him.... “I should perhaps have done the same thing in his | |
place,” thought Pierre. “It’s even certain that I should have done | |
the same, then why this duel, this murder? Either I shall kill him, or | |
he will hit me in the head, or elbow, or knee. Can’t I go away from | |
here, run away, bury myself somewhere?” passed through his mind. But | |
just at moments when such thoughts occurred to him, he would ask in a | |
particularly calm and absent-minded way, which inspired the respect of | |
the onlookers, “Will it be long? Are things ready?” | |
When all was ready, the sabers stuck in the snow to mark the barriers, | |
and the pistols loaded, Nesvítski went up to Pierre. | |
“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. I think there is no | |
sufficient ground for this affair, or for blood to be shed over it.... | |
You were not right, not quite in the right, you were impetuous...” | |
“Oh yes, it is horribly stupid,” said Pierre. | |
“Then allow me to express your regrets, and I am sure your opponent | |
will accept them,” said Nesvítski (who like the others concerned in | |
the affair, and like everyone in similar cases, did not yet believe that | |
the affair had come to an actual duel). “You know, Count, it is much | |
more honorable to admit one’s mistake than to let matters become | |
irreparable. There was no insult on either side. Allow me to | |
convey....” | |
“No! What is there to talk about?” said Pierre. “It’s all the | |
same.... Is everything ready?” he added. “Only tell me where to go | |
and where to shoot,” he said with an unnaturally gentle smile. | |
He took the pistol in his hand and began asking about the working of the | |
trigger, as he had not before held a pistol in his hand—a fact that he | |
did not wish to confess. | |
“Oh yes, like that, I know, I only forgot,” said he. | |
“No apologies, none whatever,” said Dólokhov to Denísov (who on | |
his side had been attempting a reconciliation), and he also went up to | |
the appointed place. | |
The spot chosen for the duel was some eighty paces from the road, | |
where the sleighs had been left, in a small clearing in the pine forest | |
covered with melting snow, the frost having begun to break up during the | |
last few days. The antagonists stood forty paces apart at the farther | |
edge of the clearing. The seconds, measuring the paces, left tracks in | |
the deep wet snow between the place where they had been standing and | |
Nesvítski’s and Dólokhov’s sabers, which were stuck into the | |
ground ten paces apart to mark the barrier. It was thawing and misty; at | |
forty paces’ distance nothing could be seen. For three minutes all had | |
been ready, but they still delayed and all were silent. | |
CHAPTER V | |
“Well begin!” said Dólokhov. | |
“All right,” said Pierre, still smiling in the same way. A feeling | |
of dread was in the air. It was evident that the affair so lightly begun | |
could no longer be averted but was taking its course independently of | |
men’s will. | |
Denísov first went to the barrier and announced: “As the | |
adve’sawies have wefused a weconciliation, please pwoceed. Take your | |
pistols, and at the word thwee begin to advance. | |
“O-ne! T-wo! Thwee!” he shouted angrily and stepped aside. | |
The combatants advanced along the trodden tracks, nearer and nearer to | |
one another, beginning to see one another through the mist. They had the | |
right to fire when they liked as they approached the barrier. Dólokhov | |
walked slowly without raising his pistol, looking intently with his | |
bright, sparkling blue eyes into his antagonist’s face. His mouth wore | |
its usual semblance of a smile. | |
“So I can fire when I like!” said Pierre, and at the word | |
“three,” he went quickly forward, missing the trodden path and | |
stepping into the deep snow. He held the pistol in his right hand at | |
arm’s length, apparently afraid of shooting himself with it. His left | |
hand he held carefully back, because he wished to support his right | |
hand with it and knew he must not do so. Having advanced six paces and | |
strayed off the track into the snow, Pierre looked down at his feet, | |
then quickly glanced at Dólokhov and, bending his finger as he had been | |
shown, fired. Not at all expecting so loud a report, Pierre shuddered | |
at the sound and then, smiling at his own sensations, stood still. The | |
smoke, rendered denser by the mist, prevented him from seeing anything | |
for an instant, but there was no second report as he had expected. He | |
only heard Dólokhov’s hurried steps, and his figure came in view | |
through the smoke. He was pressing one hand to his left side, while | |
the other clutched his drooping pistol. His face was pale. Rostóv ran | |
toward him and said something. | |
“No-o-o!” muttered Dólokhov through his teeth, “no, it’s not | |
over.” And after stumbling a few staggering steps right up to the | |
saber, he sank on the snow beside it. His left hand was bloody; he wiped | |
it on his coat and supported himself with it. His frowning face was | |
pallid and quivered. | |
“Plea...” began Dólokhov, but could not at first pronounce the | |
word. | |
“Please,” he uttered with an effort. | |
Pierre, hardly restraining his sobs, began running toward Dólokhov and | |
was about to cross the space between the barriers, when Dólokhov cried: | |
“To your barrier!” and Pierre, grasping what was meant, stopped by | |
his saber. Only ten paces divided them. Dólokhov lowered his head to | |
the snow, greedily bit at it, again raised his head, adjusted himself, | |
drew in his legs and sat up, seeking a firm center of gravity. He sucked | |
and swallowed the cold snow, his lips quivered but his eyes, still | |
smiling, glittered with effort and exasperation as he mustered his | |
remaining strength. He raised his pistol and aimed. | |
“Sideways! Cover yourself with your pistol!” ejaculated Nesvítski. | |
“Cover yourself!” even Denísov cried to his adversary. | |
Pierre, with a gentle smile of pity and remorse, his arms and legs | |
helplessly spread out, stood with his broad chest directly facing | |
Dólokhov and looked sorrowfully at him. Denísov, Rostóv, and | |
Nesvítski closed their eyes. At the same instant they heard a report | |
and Dólokhov’s angry cry. | |
“Missed!” shouted Dólokhov, and he lay helplessly, face downwards | |
on the snow. | |
Pierre clutched his temples, and turning round went into the forest, | |
trampling through the deep snow, and muttering incoherent words: | |
“Folly... folly! Death... lies...” he repeated, puckering his face. | |
Nesvítski stopped him and took him home. | |
Rostóv and Denísov drove away with the wounded Dólokhov. | |
The latter lay silent in the sleigh with closed eyes and did not answer | |
a word to the questions addressed to him. But on entering Moscow he | |
suddenly came to and, lifting his head with an effort, took Rostóv, who | |
was sitting beside him, by the hand. Rostóv was struck by the | |
totally altered and unexpectedly rapturous and tender expression on | |
Dólokhov’s face. | |
“Well? How do you feel?” he asked. | |
“Bad! But it’s not that, my friend—” said Dólokhov with a | |
gasping voice. “Where are we? In Moscow, I know. I don’t matter, | |
but I have killed her, killed... She won’t get over it! She won’t | |
survive....” | |
“Who?” asked Rostóv. | |
“My mother! My mother, my angel, my adored angel mother,” and | |
Dólokhov pressed Rostóv’s hand and burst into tears. | |
When he had become a little quieter, he explained to Rostóv that he was | |
living with his mother, who, if she saw him dying, would not survive it. | |
He implored Rostóv to go on and prepare her. | |
Rostóv went on ahead to do what was asked, and to his great surprise | |
learned that Dólokhov the brawler, Dólokhov the bully, lived in Moscow | |
with an old mother and a hunchback sister, and was the most affectionate | |
of sons and brothers. | |
CHAPTER VI | |
Pierre had of late rarely seen his wife alone. Both in Petersburg and in | |
Moscow their house was always full of visitors. 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 Bezúkhov had died. | |
He lay down on the sofa meaning to fall asleep and forget all that | |
had happened to him, but could not do so. Such a storm of feelings, | |
thoughts, and memories suddenly arose within him that he could not fall | |
asleep, nor even remain in one place, but had to jump up and pace the | |
room with rapid steps. Now he seemed to see her in the early days of | |
their marriage, with bare shoulders and a languid, passionate look on | |
her face, and then immediately he saw beside her Dólokhov’s handsome, | |
insolent, hard, and mocking face as he had seen it at the banquet, and | |
then that same face pale, quivering, and suffering, as it had been when | |
he reeled and sank on the snow. | |
“What has happened?” he asked himself. “I have killed her lover, | |
yes, killed my wife’s lover. Yes, that was it! And why? How did I come | |
to do it?”—“Because you married her,” answered an inner voice. | |
“But in what was I to blame?” he asked. “In marrying her without | |
loving her; in deceiving yourself and her.” And he vividly recalled | |
that moment after supper at Prince Vasíli’s, when he spoke those | |
words he had found so difficult to utter: “I love you.” “It all | |
comes from that! Even then I felt it,” he thought. “I felt then that | |
it was not so, that I had no right to do it. And so it turns out.” | |
He remembered his honeymoon and blushed at the recollection. | |
Particularly vivid, humiliating, and shameful was the recollection of | |
how one day soon after his marriage he came out of the bedroom into his | |
study a little before noon in his silk dressing gown and found his head | |
steward there, who, bowing respectfully, looked into his face and at | |
his dressing gown and smiled slightly, as if expressing respectful | |
understanding of his employer’s happiness. | |
“But how often I have felt proud of her, proud of her majestic beauty | |
and social tact,” thought he; “been proud of my house, in which she | |
received all Petersburg, proud of her unapproachability and beauty. So | |
this is what I was proud of! I then thought that I did not understand | |
her. How often when considering her character I have told myself that | |
I was to blame for not understanding her, for not understanding that | |
constant composure and complacency and lack of all interests or desires, | |
and the whole secret lies in the terrible truth that she is a depraved | |
woman. Now I have spoken that terrible word to myself all has become | |
clear. | |
“Anatole used to come to borrow money from her and used to kiss her | |
naked shoulders. She did not give him the money, but let herself be | |
kissed. Her father in jest tried to rouse her jealousy, and she replied | |
with a calm smile that she was not so stupid as to be jealous: ‘Let | |
him do what he pleases,’ she used to say of me. One day I asked her if | |
she felt any symptoms of pregnancy. She laughed contemptuously and said | |
she was not a fool to want to have children, and that she was not going | |
to have any children by me.” | |
Then he recalled the coarseness and bluntness of her thoughts and the | |
vulgarity of the expressions that were natural to her, though she had | |
been brought up in the most aristocratic circles. | |
“I’m not such a fool.... Just you try it on.... Allez-vous | |
promener,” * she used to say. Often seeing the success she had with | |
young and old men and women Pierre could not understand why he did not | |
love her. | |
* “You clear out of this.” | |
“Yes, I never loved her,” said he to himself; “I knew she was a | |
depraved woman,” he repeated, “but dared not admit it to myself. | |
And now there’s Dólokhov sitting in the snow with a forced smile and | |
perhaps dying, while meeting my remorse with some forced bravado!” | |
Pierre was one of those people who, in spite of an appearance of what | |
is called weak character, do not seek a confidant in their troubles. He | |
digested his sufferings alone. | |
“It is all, all her fault,” he said to himself; “but what of that? | |
Why did I bind myself to her? Why did I say ‘Je vous aime’ * to her, | |
which was a lie, and worse than a lie? I am guilty and must endure... | |
what? A slur on my name? A misfortune for life? Oh, that’s | |
nonsense,” he thought. “The slur on my name and honor—that’s all | |
apart from myself.” | |
* I love you. | |
“Louis XVI was executed because they said he was dishonorable and a | |
criminal,” came into Pierre’s head, “and from their point of | |
view they were right, as were those too who canonized him and died a | |
martyr’s death for his sake. Then Robespierre was beheaded for being | |
a despot. Who is right and who is wrong? No one! But if you are | |
alive—live: tomorrow you’ll die as I might have died an hour ago. | |
And is it worth tormenting oneself, when one has only a moment of life | |
in comparison with eternity?” | |
But at the moment when he imagined himself calmed by such reflections, | |
she suddenly came into his mind as she was at the moments when he had | |
most strongly expressed his insincere love for her, and he felt the | |
blood rush to his heart and had again to get up and move about and break | |
and tear whatever came to his hand. “Why did I tell her that ‘Je | |
vous aime’?” he kept repeating to himself. And when he had said it | |
for the tenth time, Molière’s words: “Mais que diable allait-il | |
faire dans cette galère?” * occurred to him, and he began to laugh at | |
himself. | |
* “But what the devil was he doing in that galley?” | |
In the night he called his valet and told him to pack up to go to | |
Petersburg. He could not imagine how he could speak to her now. He | |
resolved to go away next day and leave a letter informing her of his | |
intention to part from her forever. | |
Next morning when the valet came into the room with his coffee, Pierre | |
was lying asleep on the ottoman with an open book in his hand. | |
He woke up and looked round for a while with a startled expression, | |
unable to realize where he was. | |
“The countess told me to inquire whether your excellency was at | |
home,” said the valet. | |
But before Pierre could decide what answer he would send, the countess | |
herself in a white satin dressing gown embroidered with silver and with | |
simply dressed hair (two immense plaits twice round her lovely head like | |
a coronet) entered the room, calm and majestic, except that there was | |
a wrathful wrinkle on her rather prominent marble brow. With her | |
imperturbable calm she did not begin to speak in front of the valet. | |
She knew of the duel and had come to speak about it. She waited till the | |
valet had set down the coffee things and left the room. Pierre looked | |
at her timidly over his spectacles, and like a hare surrounded by hounds | |
who lays back her ears and continues to crouch motionless before her | |
enemies, he tried to continue reading. But feeling this to be senseless | |
and impossible, he again glanced timidly at her. She did not sit down | |
but looked at him with a contemptuous smile, waiting for the valet to | |
go. | |
“Well, what’s this now? What have you been up to now, I should like | |
to know?” she asked sternly. | |
“I? What have I...?” stammered Pierre. | |
“So it seems you’re a hero, eh? Come now, what was this duel about? | |
What is it meant to prove? What? I ask you.” | |
Pierre turned over heavily on the ottoman and opened his mouth, but | |
could not reply. | |
“If you won’t answer, I’ll tell you...” Hélène went on. “You | |
believe everything you’re told. You were told...” Hélène laughed, | |
“that Dólokhov was my lover,” she said in French with her coarse | |
plainness of speech, uttering the word amant as casually as any other | |
word, “and you believed it! Well, what have you proved? What does this | |
duel prove? That you’re a fool, que vous êtes un sot, but everybody | |
knew that. What will be the result? That I shall be the laughingstock of | |
all Moscow, that everyone will say that you, drunk and not knowing what | |
you were about, challenged a man you are jealous of without cause.” | |
Hélène raised her voice and became more and more excited, “A man | |
who’s a better man than you in every way...” | |
“Hm... Hm...!” growled Pierre, frowning without looking at her, and | |
not moving a muscle. | |
“And how could you believe he was my lover? Why? Because I like | |
his company? If you were cleverer and more agreeable, I should prefer | |
yours.” | |
“Don’t speak to me... I beg you,” muttered Pierre hoarsely. | |
“Why shouldn’t I speak? I can speak as I like, and I tell you | |
plainly that there are not many wives with husbands such as you who | |
would not have taken lovers (des amants), but I have not done so,” | |
said she. | |
Pierre wished to say something, looked at her with eyes whose strange | |
expression she did not understand, and lay down again. He was suffering | |
physically at that moment, there was a weight on his chest and he could | |
not breathe. He knew that he must do something to put an end to this | |
suffering, but what he wanted to do was too terrible. | |
“We had better separate,” he muttered in a broken voice. | |
“Separate? Very well, but only if you give me a fortune,” said | |
Hélène. “Separate! That’s a thing to frighten me with!” | |
Pierre leaped up from the sofa and rushed staggering toward her. | |
“I’ll kill you!” he shouted, and seizing the marble top of a table | |
with a strength he had never before felt, he made a step toward her | |
brandishing the slab. | |
Hélène’s face became terrible, she shrieked and sprang aside. His | |
father’s nature showed itself in Pierre. He felt the fascination and | |
delight of frenzy. He flung down the slab, broke it, and swooping | |
down on her with outstretched hands shouted, “Get out!” in such a | |
terrible voice that the whole house heard it with horror. God knows what | |
he would have done at that moment had Hélène not fled from the room. | |
A week later Pierre gave his wife full power to control all his estates | |
in Great Russia, which formed the larger part of his property, and left | |
for Petersburg alone. | |
CHAPTER VII | |
Two months had elapsed since the news of the battle of Austerlitz and | |
the loss of Prince Andrew had reached Bald Hills, and in spite of the | |
letters sent through the embassy and all the searches made, his body had | |
not been found nor was he on the list of prisoners. What was worst of | |
all for his relations was the fact that there was still a possibility of | |
his having been picked up on the battlefield by the people of the | |
place and that he might now be lying, recovering or dying, alone among | |
strangers and unable to send news of himself. The gazettes from which | |
the old prince first heard of the defeat at Austerlitz stated, as usual | |
very briefly and vaguely, that after brilliant engagements the Russians | |
had had to retreat and had made their withdrawal in perfect order. The | |
old prince understood from this official report that our army had been | |
defeated. A week after the gazette report of the battle of Austerlitz | |
came a letter from Kutúzov informing the prince of the fate that had | |
befallen his son. | |
“Your son,” wrote Kutúzov, “fell before my eyes, a standard in | |
his hand and at the head of a regiment—he fell as a hero, worthy of | |
his father and his fatherland. To the great regret of myself and of the | |
whole army it is still uncertain whether he is alive or not. I comfort | |
myself and you with the hope that your son is alive, for otherwise | |
he would have been mentioned among the officers found on the field of | |
battle, a list of whom has been sent me under flag of truce.” | |
After receiving this news late in the evening, when he was alone in his | |
study, the old prince went for his walk as usual next morning, but he | |
was silent with his steward, the gardener, and the architect, and though | |
he looked very grim he said nothing to anyone. | |
When Princess Mary went to him at the usual hour he was working at his | |
lathe and, as usual, did not look round at her. | |
“Ah, Princess Mary!” he said suddenly in an unnatural voice, | |
throwing down his chisel. (The wheel continued to revolve by its own | |
impetus, and Princess Mary long remembered the dying creak of that | |
wheel, which merged in her memory with what followed.) | |
She approached him, saw his face, and something gave way within her. Her | |
eyes grew dim. By the expression of her father’s face, not sad, not | |
crushed, but angry and working unnaturally, she saw that hanging over | |
her and about to crush her was some terrible misfortune, the worst | |
in life, one she had not yet experienced, irreparable and | |
incomprehensible—the death of one she loved. | |
“Father! Andrew!”—said the ungraceful, awkward princess with such | |
an indescribable charm of sorrow and self-forgetfulness that her father | |
could not bear her look but turned away with a sob. | |
“Bad news! He’s not among the prisoners nor among the killed! | |
Kutúzov writes...” and he screamed as piercingly as if he wished to | |
drive the princess away by that scream... “Killed!” | |
The princess did not fall down or faint. She was already pale, but on | |
hearing these words her face changed and something brightened in her | |
beautiful, radiant eyes. It was as if joy—a supreme joy apart from the | |
joys and sorrows of this world—overflowed the great grief within her. | |
She forgot all fear of her father, went up to him, took his hand, and | |
drawing him down put her arm round his thin, scraggy neck. | |
“Father,” she said, “do not turn away from me, let us weep | |
together.” | |
“Scoundrels! Blackguards!” shrieked the old man, turning his face | |
away from her. “Destroying the army, destroying the men! And why? Go, | |
go and tell Lise.” | |
The princess sank helplessly into an armchair beside her father and | |
wept. She saw her brother now as he had been at the moment when he took | |
leave of her and of Lise, his look tender yet proud. She saw him tender | |
and amused as he was when he put on the little icon. “Did he believe? | |
Had he repented of his unbelief? Was he now there? There in the realms | |
of eternal peace and blessedness?” she thought. | |
“Father, tell me how it happened,” she asked through her tears. | |
“Go! Go! Killed in battle, where the best of Russian men and | |
Russia’s glory were led to destruction. Go, Princess Mary. Go and tell | |
Lise. I will follow.” | |
When Princess Mary returned from her father, the little princess sat | |
working and looked up with that curious expression of inner, happy calm | |
peculiar to pregnant women. It was evident that her eyes did not see | |
Princess Mary but were looking within... into herself... at something | |
joyful and mysterious taking place within her. | |
“Mary,” she said, moving away from the embroidery frame and lying | |
back, “give me your hand.” She took her sister-in-law’s hand and | |
held it below her waist. | |
Her eyes were smiling expectantly, her downy lip rose and remained | |
lifted in childlike happiness. | |
Princess Mary knelt down before her and hid her face in the folds of her | |
sister-in-law’s dress. | |
“There, there! Do you feel it? I feel so strange. And do you know, | |
Mary, I am going to love him very much,” said Lise, looking with | |
bright and happy eyes at her sister-in-law. | |
Princess Mary could not lift her head, she was weeping. | |
“What is the matter, Mary?” | |
“Nothing... only I feel sad... sad about Andrew,” she said, wiping | |
away her tears on her sister-in-law’s knee. | |
Several times in the course of the morning Princess Mary began trying to | |
prepare her sister-in-law, and every time began to cry. Unobservant as | |
was the little princess, these tears, the cause of which she did not | |
understand, agitated her. She said nothing but looked about uneasily as | |
if in search of something. Before dinner the old prince, of whom she was | |
always afraid, came into her room with a peculiarly restless and malign | |
expression and went out again without saying a word. She looked at | |
Princess Mary, then sat thinking for a while with that expression of | |
attention to something within her that is only seen in pregnant women, | |
and suddenly began to cry. | |
“Has anything come from Andrew?” she asked. | |
“No, you know it’s too soon for news. But my father is anxious and I | |
feel afraid.” | |
“So there’s nothing?” | |
“Nothing,” answered Princess Mary, looking firmly with her radiant | |
eyes at her sister-in-law. | |
She had determined not to tell her and persuaded her father to hide the | |
terrible news from her till after her confinement, which was expected | |
within a few days. Princess Mary and the old prince each bore and hid | |
their grief in their own way. The old prince would not cherish any hope: | |
he made up his mind that Prince Andrew had been killed, and though he | |
sent an official to Austria to seek for traces of his son, he ordered a | |
monument from Moscow which he intended to erect in his own garden to his | |
memory, and he told everybody that his son had been killed. He tried not | |
to change his former way of life, but his strength failed him. He walked | |
less, ate less, slept less, and became weaker every day. Princess Mary | |
hoped. She prayed for her brother as living and was always awaiting news | |
of his return. | |
CHAPTER VIII | |
“Dearest,” said the little princess after breakfast on the morning | |
of the nineteenth March, and her downy little lip rose from old habit, | |
but as sorrow was manifest in every smile, the sound of every word, and | |
even every footstep in that house since the terrible news had come, so | |
now the smile of the little princess—influenced by the general mood | |
though without knowing its cause—was such as to remind one still more | |
of the general sorrow. | |
“Dearest, I’m afraid this morning’s fruschtique *—as Fóka the | |
cook calls it—has disagreed with me.” | |
* Frühstück: breakfast. | |
“What is the matter with you, my darling? You look pale. Oh, you | |
are very pale!” said Princess Mary in alarm, running with her soft, | |
ponderous steps up to her sister-in-law. | |
“Your excellency, should not Mary Bogdánovna be sent for?” said one | |
of the maids who was present. (Mary Bogdánovna was a midwife from the | |
neighboring town, who had been at Bald Hills for the last fortnight.) | |
“Oh yes,” assented Princess Mary, “perhaps that’s it. I’ll go. | |
Courage, my angel.” She kissed Lise and was about to leave the room. | |
“Oh, no, no!” And besides the pallor and the physical suffering | |
on the little princess’ face, an expression of childish fear of | |
inevitable pain showed itself. | |
“No, it’s only indigestion?... Say it’s only indigestion, say so, | |
Mary! Say...” And the little princess began to cry capriciously like | |
a suffering child and to wring her little hands even with some | |
affectation. Princess Mary ran out of the room to fetch Mary | |
Bogdánovna. | |
“Mon Dieu! Mon Dieu! Oh!” she heard as she left the room. | |
The midwife was already on her way to meet her, rubbing her small, plump | |
white hands with an air of calm importance. | |
“Mary Bogdánovna, I think it’s beginning!” said Princess Mary | |
looking at the midwife with wide-open eyes of alarm. | |
“Well, the Lord be thanked, Princess,” said Mary Bogdánovna, not | |
hastening her steps. “You young ladies should not know anything about | |
it.” | |
“But how is it the doctor from Moscow is not here yet?” said the | |
princess. (In accordance with Lise’s and Prince Andrew’s wishes they | |
had sent in good time to Moscow for a doctor and were expecting him at | |
any moment.) | |
“No matter, Princess, don’t be alarmed,” said Mary Bogdánovna. | |
“We’ll manage very well without a doctor.” | |
Five minutes later Princess Mary from her room heard something heavy | |
being carried by. She looked out. The men servants were carrying the | |
large leather sofa from Prince Andrew’s study into the bedroom. On | |
their faces was a quiet and solemn look. | |
Princess Mary sat alone in her room listening to the sounds in the | |
house, now and then opening her door when someone passed and watching | |
what was going on in the passage. Some women passing with quiet steps in | |
and out of the bedroom glanced at the princess and turned away. She did | |
not venture to ask any questions, and shut the door again, now sitting | |
down in her easy chair, now taking her prayer book, now kneeling before | |
the icon stand. To her surprise and distress she found that her prayers | |
did not calm her excitement. Suddenly her door opened softly and her old | |
nurse, Praskóvya Sávishna, who hardly ever came to that room as the | |
old prince had forbidden it, appeared on the threshold with a shawl | |
round her head. | |
“I’ve come to sit with you a bit, Másha,” said the nurse, “and | |
here I’ve brought the prince’s wedding candles to light before his | |
saint, my angel,” she said with a sigh. | |
“Oh, nurse, I’m so glad!” | |
“God is merciful, birdie.” | |
The nurse lit the gilt candles before the icons and sat down by the door | |
with her knitting. Princess Mary took a book and began reading. Only | |
when footsteps or voices were heard did they look at one another, the | |
princess anxious and inquiring, the nurse encouraging. Everyone in the | |
house was dominated by the same feeling that Princess Mary experienced | |
as she sat in her room. But owing to the superstition that the fewer | |
the people who know of it the less a woman in travail suffers, everyone | |
tried to pretend not to know; no one spoke of it, but apart from the | |
ordinary staid and respectful good manners habitual in the prince’s | |
household, a common anxiety, a softening of the heart, and a | |
consciousness that something great and mysterious was being accomplished | |
at that moment made itself felt. | |
There was no laughter in the maids’ large hall. In the men servants’ | |
hall all sat waiting, silently and alert. In the outlying serfs’ | |
quarters torches and candles were burning and no one slept. The old | |
prince, stepping on his heels, paced up and down his study and sent | |
Tíkhon to ask Mary Bogdánovna what news.—“Say only that ‘the | |
prince told me to ask,’ and come and tell me her answer.” | |
“Inform the prince that labor has begun,” said Mary Bogdánovna, | |
giving the messenger a significant look. | |
Tíkhon went and told the prince. | |
“Very good!” said the prince closing the door behind him, and | |
Tíkhon did not hear the slightest sound from the study after that. | |
After a while he re-entered it as if to snuff the candles, and, seeing | |
the prince was lying on the sofa, looked at him, noticed his perturbed | |
face, shook his head, and going up to him silently kissed him on the | |
shoulder and left the room without snuffing the candles or saying why he | |
had entered. The most solemn mystery in the world continued its course. | |
Evening passed, night came, and the feeling of suspense and softening of | |
heart in the presence of the unfathomable did not lessen but increased. | |
No one slept. | |
It was one of those March nights when winter seems to wish to resume its | |
sway and scatters its last snows and storms with desperate fury. A relay | |
of horses had been sent up the highroad to meet the German doctor from | |
Moscow who was expected every moment, and men on horseback with lanterns | |
were sent to the crossroads to guide him over the country road with its | |
hollows and snow-covered pools of water. | |
Princess Mary had long since put aside her book: she sat silent, her | |
luminous eyes fixed on her nurse’s wrinkled face (every line of which | |
she knew so well), on the lock of gray hair that escaped from under the | |
kerchief, and the loose skin that hung under her chin. | |
Nurse Sávishna, knitting in hand, was telling in low tones, scarcely | |
hearing or understanding her own words, what she had told hundreds of | |
times before: how the late princess had given birth to Princess Mary | |
in Kishenëv with only a Moldavian peasant woman to help instead of a | |
midwife. | |
“God is merciful, doctors are never needed,” she said. | |
Suddenly a gust of wind beat violently against the casement of the | |
window, from which the double frame had been removed (by order of the | |
prince, one window frame was removed in each room as soon as the larks | |
returned), and, forcing open a loosely closed latch, set the damask | |
curtain flapping and blew out the candle with its chill, snowy draft. | |
Princess Mary shuddered; her nurse, putting down the stocking she was | |
knitting, went to the window and leaning out tried to catch the open | |
casement. The cold wind flapped the ends of her kerchief and her loose | |
locks of gray hair. | |
“Princess, my dear, there’s someone driving up the avenue!” she | |
said, holding the casement and not closing it. “With lanterns. Most | |
likely the doctor.” | |
“Oh, my God! thank God!” said Princess Mary. “I must go and meet | |
him, he does not know Russian.” | |
Princess Mary threw a shawl over her head and ran to meet the newcomer. | |
As she was crossing the anteroom she saw through the window a carriage | |
with lanterns, standing at the entrance. She went out on the stairs. On | |
a banister post stood a tallow candle which guttered in the draft. On | |
the landing below, Philip, the footman, stood looking scared and holding | |
another candle. Still lower, beyond the turn of the staircase, one | |
could hear the footstep of someone in thick felt boots, and a voice that | |
seemed familiar to Princess Mary was saying something. | |
“Thank God!” said the voice. “And Father?” | |
“Gone to bed,” replied the voice of Demyán the house steward, who | |
was downstairs. | |
Then the voice said something more, Demyán replied, and the steps in | |
the felt boots approached the unseen bend of the staircase more rapidly. | |
“It’s Andrew!” thought Princess Mary. “No it can’t be, that | |
would be too extraordinary,” and at the very moment she thought this, | |
the face and figure of Prince Andrew, in a fur cloak the deep collar of | |
which covered with snow, appeared on the landing where the footman | |
stood with the candle. Yes, it was he, pale, thin, with a changed and | |
strangely softened but agitated expression on his face. He came up the | |
stairs and embraced his sister. | |
“You did not get my letter?” he asked, and not waiting for a | |
reply—which he would not have received, for the princess was unable to | |
speak—he turned back, rapidly mounted the stairs again with the | |
doctor who had entered the hall after him (they had met at the last post | |
station), and again embraced his sister. | |
“What a strange fate, Másha darling!” And having taken off his | |
cloak and felt boots, he went to the little princess’ apartment. | |
CHAPTER IX | |
The little princess lay supported by pillows, with a white cap on her | |
head (the pains had just left her). Strands of her black hair lay round | |
her inflamed and perspiring cheeks, her charming rosy mouth with its | |
downy lip was open and she was smiling joyfully. Prince Andrew entered | |
and paused facing her at the foot of the sofa on which she was lying. | |
Her glittering eyes, filled with childlike fear and excitement, rested | |
on him without changing their expression. “I love you all and have | |
done no harm to anyone; why must I suffer so? Help me!” her look | |
seemed to say. She saw her husband, but did not realize the significance | |
of his appearance before her now. Prince Andrew went round the sofa and | |
kissed her forehead. | |
“My darling!” he said—a word he had never used to her before. | |
“God is merciful....” | |
She looked at him inquiringly and with childlike reproach. | |
“I expected help from you and I get none, none from you either!” | |
said her eyes. She was not surprised at his having come; she did | |
not realize that he had come. His coming had nothing to do with | |
her sufferings or with their relief. The pangs began again and Mary | |
Bogdánovna advised Prince Andrew to leave the room. | |
The doctor entered. Prince Andrew went out and, meeting Princess Mary, | |
again joined her. They began talking in whispers, but their talk broke | |
off at every moment. They waited and listened. | |
“Go, dear,” said Princess Mary. | |
Prince Andrew went again to his wife and sat waiting in the room next | |
to hers. A woman came from the bedroom with a frightened face and became | |
confused when she saw Prince Andrew. He covered his face with his hands | |
and remained so for some minutes. Piteous, helpless, animal moans came | |
through the door. Prince Andrew got up, went to the door, and tried to | |
open it. Someone was holding it shut. | |
“You can’t come in! You can’t!” said a terrified voice from | |
within. | |
He began pacing the room. The screaming ceased, and a few more seconds | |
went by. Then suddenly a terrible shriek—it could not be hers, she | |
could not scream like that—came from the bedroom. Prince Andrew ran to | |
the door; the scream ceased and he heard the wail of an infant. | |
“What have they taken a baby in there for?” thought Prince Andrew in | |
the first second. “A baby? What baby...? Why is there a baby there? Or | |
is the baby born?” | |
Then suddenly he realized the joyful significance of that wail; tears | |
choked him, and leaning his elbows on the window sill he began to cry, | |
sobbing like a child. The door opened. The doctor with his shirt sleeves | |
tucked up, without a coat, pale and with a trembling jaw, came out | |
of the room. Prince Andrew turned to him, but the doctor gave him a | |
bewildered look and passed by without a word. A woman rushed out and | |
seeing Prince Andrew stopped, hesitating on the threshold. He went into | |
his wife’s room. She was lying dead, in the same position he had seen | |
her in five minutes before and, despite the fixed eyes and the pallor of | |
the cheeks, the same expression was on her charming childlike face with | |
its upper lip covered with tiny black hair. | |
“I love you all, and have done no harm to anyone; and what have you | |
done to me?”—said her charming, pathetic, dead face. | |
In a corner of the room something red and tiny gave a grunt and squealed | |
in Mary Bogdánovna’s trembling white hands. | |
Two hours later Prince Andrew, stepping softly, went into his father’s | |
room. The old man already knew everything. He was standing close to | |
the door and as soon as it opened his rough old arms closed like a vise | |
round his son’s neck, and without a word he began to sob like a child. | |
Three days later the little princess was buried, and Prince Andrew went | |
up the steps to where the coffin stood, to give her the farewell kiss. | |
And there in the coffin was the same face, though with closed eyes. | |
“Ah, what have you done to me?” it still seemed to say, and Prince | |
Andrew felt that something gave way in his soul and that he was guilty | |
of a sin he could neither remedy nor forget. He could not weep. The | |
old man too came up and kissed the waxen little hands that lay quietly | |
crossed one on the other on her breast, and to him, too, her face seemed | |
to say: “Ah, what have you done to me, and why?” And at the sight | |
the old man turned angrily away. | |
Another five days passed, and then the young Prince Nicholas Andréevich | |
was baptized. The wet nurse supported the coverlet with her chin, while | |
the priest with a goose feather anointed the boy’s little red and | |
wrinkled soles and palms. | |
His grandfather, who was his godfather, trembling and afraid of dropping | |
him, carried the infant round the battered tin font and handed him over | |
to the godmother, Princess Mary. Prince Andrew sat in another room, | |
faint with fear lest the baby should be drowned in the font, and awaited | |
the termination of the ceremony. He looked up joyfully at the baby when | |
the nurse brought it to him and nodded approval when she told him that | |
the wax with the baby’s hair had not sunk in the font but had floated. | |
CHAPTER X | |
Rostóv’s share in Dólokhov’s duel with Bezúkhov was hushed up by | |
the efforts of the old count, and instead of being degraded to the ranks | |
as he expected he was appointed an adjutant to the governor general of | |
Moscow. As a result he could not go to the country with the rest of the | |
family, but was kept all summer in Moscow by his new duties. Dólokhov | |
recovered, and Rostóv became very friendly with him during his | |
convalescence. Dólokhov lay ill at his mother’s who loved him | |
passionately and tenderly, and old Mary Ivánovna, who had grown fond of | |
Rostóv for his friendship to her Fédya, often talked to him about her | |
son. | |
“Yes, Count,” she would say, “he is too noble and pure-souled for | |
our present, depraved world. No one now loves virtue; it seems like | |
a reproach to everyone. Now tell me, Count, was it right, was it | |
honorable, of Bezúkhov? And Fédya, with his noble spirit, loved him | |
and even now never says a word against him. Those pranks in Petersburg | |
when they played some tricks on a policeman, didn’t they do it | |
together? And there! Bezúkhov got off scotfree, while Fédya had to | |
bear the whole burden on his shoulders. Fancy what he had to go through! | |
It’s true he has been reinstated, but how could they fail to do that? | |
I think there were not many such gallant sons of the fatherland out | |
there as he. And now—this duel! Have these people no feeling, or | |
honor? Knowing him to be an only son, to challenge him and shoot so | |
straight! It’s well God had mercy on us. And what was it for? Who | |
doesn’t have intrigues nowadays? Why, if he was so jealous, as I see | |
things he should have shown it sooner, but he lets it go on for months. | |
And then to call him out, reckoning on Fédya not fighting because he | |
owed him money! What baseness! What meanness! I know you understand | |
Fédya, my dear count; that, believe me, is why I am so fond of you. Few | |
people do understand him. He is such a lofty, heavenly soul!” | |
Dólokhov himself during his convalescence spoke to Rostóv in a way no | |
one would have expected of him. | |
“I know people consider me a bad man!” he said. “Let them! I | |
don’t care a straw about anyone but those I love; but those I love, | |
I love so that I would give my life for them, and the others I’d | |
throttle if they stood in my way. I have an adored, a priceless mother, | |
and two or three friends—you among them—and as for the rest I only | |
care about them in so far as they are harmful or useful. And most of | |
them are harmful, especially the women. Yes, dear boy,” he continued, | |
“I have met loving, noble, high-minded men, but I have not yet met | |
any women—countesses or cooks—who were not venal. I have not yet met | |
that divine purity and devotion I look for in women. If I found such a | |
one I’d give my life for her! But those!...” and he made a gesture | |
of contempt. “And believe me, if I still value my life it is | |
only because I still hope to meet such a divine creature, who will | |
regenerate, purify, and elevate me. But you don’t understand it.” | |
“Oh, yes, I quite understand,” answered Rostóv, who was under his | |
new friend’s influence. | |
In the autumn the Rostóvs returned to Moscow. Early in the winter | |
Denísov also came back and stayed with them. The first half of the | |
winter of 1806, which Nicholas Rostóv spent in Moscow, was one of the | |
happiest, merriest times for him and the whole family. Nicholas brought | |
many young men to his parents’ house. Véra was a handsome girl | |
of twenty; Sónya a girl of sixteen with all the charm of an opening | |
flower; Natásha, half grown up and half child, was now childishly | |
amusing, now girlishly enchanting. | |
At that time in the Rostóvs’ house there prevailed an amorous | |
atmosphere characteristic of homes where there are very young and very | |
charming girls. Every young man who came to the house—seeing those | |
impressionable, smiling young faces (smiling probably at their own | |
happiness), feeling the eager bustle around him, and hearing the fitful | |
bursts of song and music and the inconsequent but friendly prattle of | |
young girls ready for anything and full of hope—experienced the same | |
feeling; sharing with the young folk of the Rostóvs’ household a | |
readiness to fall in love and an expectation of happiness. | |
Among the young men introduced by Rostóv one of the first was | |
Dólokhov, whom everyone in the house liked except Natásha. She almost | |
quarreled with her brother about him. She insisted that he was a bad | |
man, and that in the duel with Bezúkhov, Pierre was right and Dólokhov | |
wrong, and further that he was disagreeable and unnatural. | |
“There’s nothing for me to understand,” she cried out with | |
resolute self-will, “he is wicked and heartless. There now, I like | |
your Denísov though he is a rake and all that, still I like him; so | |
you see I do understand. I don’t know how to put it... with this one | |
everything is calculated, and I don’t like that. But Denísov...” | |
“Oh, Denísov is quite different,” replied Nicholas, implying that | |
even Denísov was nothing compared to Dólokhov—“you must understand | |
what a soul there is in Dólokhov, you should see him with his mother. | |
What a heart!” | |
“Well, I don’t know about that, but I am uncomfortable with him. And | |
do you know he has fallen in love with Sónya?” | |
“What nonsense...” | |
“I’m certain of it; you’ll see.” | |
Natásha’s prediction proved true. Dólokhov, who did not usually care | |
for the society of ladies, began to come often to the house, and the | |
question for whose sake he came (though no one spoke of it) was soon | |
settled. He came because of Sónya. And Sónya, though she would never | |
have dared to say so, knew it and blushed scarlet every time Dólokhov | |
appeared. | |
Dólokhov often dined at the Rostóvs’, never missed a performance at | |
which they were present, and went to Iogel’s balls for young people | |
which the Rostóvs always attended. He was pointedly attentive to Sónya | |
and looked at her in such a way that not only could she not bear his | |
glances without coloring, but even the old countess and Natásha blushed | |
when they saw his looks. | |
It was evident that this strange, strong man was under the irresistible | |
influence of the dark, graceful girl who loved another. | |
Rostóv noticed something new in Dólokhov’s relations with Sónya, | |
but he did not explain to himself what these new relations were. | |
“They’re always in love with someone,” he thought of Sónya and | |
Natásha. But he was not as much at ease with Sónya and Dólokhov as | |
before and was less frequently at home. | |
In the autumn of 1806 everybody had again begun talking of the war with | |
Napoleon with even greater warmth than the year before. Orders were | |
given to raise recruits, ten men in every thousand for the regular army, | |
and besides this, nine men in every thousand for the militia. Everywhere | |
Bonaparte was anathematized and in Moscow nothing but the coming war | |
was talked of. For the Rostóv family the whole interest of these | |
preparations for war lay in the fact that Nicholas would not hear of | |
remaining in Moscow, and only awaited the termination of Denísov’s | |
furlough after Christmas to return with him to their regiment. His | |
approaching departure did not prevent his amusing himself, but rather | |
gave zest to his pleasures. He spent the greater part of his time away | |
from home, at dinners, parties, and balls. | |
CHAPTER XI | |
On the third day after Christmas Nicholas dined at home, a thing he had | |
rarely done of late. It was a grand farewell dinner, as he and Denísov | |
were leaving to join their regiment after Epiphany. About twenty people | |
were present, including Dólokhov and Denísov. | |
Never had love been so much in the air, and never had the amorous | |
atmosphere made itself so strongly felt in the Rostóvs’ house as at | |
this holiday time. “Seize the moments of happiness, love and be loved! | |
That is the only reality in the world, all else is folly. It is the one | |
thing we are interested in here,” said the spirit of the place. | |
Nicholas, having as usual exhausted two pairs of horses, without | |
visiting all the places he meant to go to and where he had been invited, | |
returned home just before dinner. As soon as he entered he noticed and | |
felt the tension of the amorous air in the house, and also noticed a | |
curious embarrassment among some of those present. Sónya, Dólokhov, | |
and the old countess were especially disturbed, and to a lesser degree | |
Natásha. Nicholas understood that something must have happened between | |
Sónya and Dólokhov before dinner, and with the kindly sensitiveness | |
natural to him was very gentle and wary with them both at dinner. On | |
that same evening there was to be one of the balls that Iogel (the | |
dancing master) gave for his pupils during the holidays. | |
“Nicholas, will you come to Iogel’s? Please do!” said Natásha. | |
“He asked you, and Vasíli Dmítrich * is also going.” | |
* Denísov. | |
“Where would I not go at the countess’ command!” said Denísov, | |
who at the Rostóvs’ had jocularly assumed the role of Natásha’s | |
knight. “I’m even weady to dance the pas de châle.” | |
“If I have time,” answered Nicholas. “But I promised the | |
Arkhárovs; they have a party.” | |
“And you?” he asked Dólokhov, but as soon as he had asked the | |
question he noticed that it should not have been put. | |
“Perhaps,” coldly and angrily replied Dólokhov, glancing at Sónya, | |
and, scowling, he gave Nicholas just such a look as he had given Pierre | |
at the club dinner. | |
“There is something up,” thought Nicholas, and he was further | |
confirmed in this conclusion by the fact that Dólokhov left immediately | |
after dinner. He called Natásha and asked her what was the matter. | |
“And I was looking for you,” said Natásha running out to him. “I | |
told you, but you would not believe it,” she said triumphantly. “He | |
has proposed to Sónya!” | |
Little as Nicholas had occupied himself with Sónya of late, something | |
seemed to give way within him at this news. Dólokhov was a suitable and | |
in some respects a brilliant match for the dowerless, orphan girl. From | |
the point of view of the old countess and of society it was out of the | |
question for her to refuse him. And therefore Nicholas’ first feeling | |
on hearing the news was one of anger with Sónya.... He tried to say, | |
“That’s capital; of course she’ll forget her childish promises | |
and accept the offer,” but before he had time to say it Natásha began | |
again. | |
“And fancy! she refused him quite definitely!” adding, after a | |
pause, “she told him she loved another.” | |
“Yes, my Sónya could not have done otherwise!” thought Nicholas. | |
“Much as Mamma pressed her, she refused, and I know she won’t change | |
once she has said...” | |
“And Mamma pressed her!” said Nicholas reproachfully. | |
“Yes,” said Natásha. “Do you know, Nicholas—don’t be | |
angry—but I know you will not marry her. I know, heaven knows how, but | |
I know for certain that you won’t marry her.” | |
“Now you don’t know that at all!” said Nicholas. “But I must | |
talk to her. What a darling Sónya is!” he added with a smile. | |
“Ah, she is indeed a darling! I’ll send her to you.” | |
And Natásha kissed her brother and ran away. | |
A minute later Sónya came in with a frightened, guilty, and scared | |
look. Nicholas went up to her and kissed her hand. This was the first | |
time since his return that they had talked alone and about their love. | |
“Sophie,” he began, timidly at first and then more and more | |
boldly, “if you wish to refuse one who is not only a brilliant and | |
advantageous match but a splendid, noble fellow... he is my friend...” | |
Sónya interrupted him. | |
“I have already refused,” she said hurriedly. | |
“If you are refusing for my sake, I am afraid that I...” | |
Sónya again interrupted. She gave him an imploring, frightened look. | |
“Nicholas, don’t tell me that!” she said. | |
“No, but I must. It may be arrogant of me, but still it is best to say | |
it. If you refuse him on my account, I must tell you the whole truth. I | |
love you, and I think I love you more than anyone else....” | |
“That is enough for me,” said Sónya, blushing. | |
“No, but I have been in love a thousand times and shall fall in | |
love again, though for no one have I such a feeling of friendship, | |
confidence, and love as I have for you. Then I am young. Mamma does | |
not wish it. In a word, I make no promise. And I beg you to consider | |
Dólokhov’s offer,” he said, articulating his friend’s name with | |
difficulty. | |
“Don’t say that to me! I want nothing. I love you as a brother and | |
always shall, and I want nothing more.” | |
“You are an angel: I am not worthy of you, but I am afraid of | |
misleading you.” | |
And Nicholas again kissed her hand. | |
CHAPTER XII | |
Iogel’s were the most enjoyable balls in Moscow. So said the mothers | |
as they watched their young people executing their newly learned steps, | |
and so said the youths and maidens themselves as they danced till they | |
were ready to drop, and so said the grown-up young men and women who | |
came to these balls with an air of condescension and found them most | |
enjoyable. That year two marriages had come of these balls. The two | |
pretty young Princesses Gorchakóv met suitors there and were married | |
and so further increased the fame of these dances. What distinguished | |
them from others was the absence of host or hostess and the presence of | |
the good-natured Iogel, flying about like a feather and bowing according | |
to the rules of his art, as he collected the tickets from all his | |
visitors. There was the fact that only those came who wished to dance | |
and amuse themselves as girls of thirteen and fourteen do who are | |
wearing long dresses for the first time. With scarcely any exceptions | |
they all were, or seemed to be, pretty—so rapturous were their smiles | |
and so sparkling their eyes. Sometimes the best of the pupils, of whom | |
Natásha, who was exceptionally graceful, was first, even danced the pas | |
de châle, but at this last ball only the écossaise, the anglaise, and | |
the mazurka, which was just coming into fashion, were danced. Iogel had | |
taken a ballroom in Bezúkhov’s house, and the ball, as everyone said, | |
was a great success. There were many pretty girls and the Rostóv girls | |
were among the prettiest. They were both particularly happy and gay. | |
That evening, proud of Dólokhov’s proposal, her refusal, and her | |
explanation with Nicholas, Sónya twirled about before she left home | |
so that the maid could hardly get her hair plaited, and she was | |
transparently radiant with impulsive joy. | |
Natásha no less proud of her first long dress and of being at a real | |
ball was even happier. They were both dressed in white muslin with pink | |
ribbons. | |
Natásha fell in love the very moment she entered the ballroom. She | |
was not in love with anyone in particular, but with everyone. Whatever | |
person she happened to look at she was in love with for that moment. | |
“Oh, how delightful it is!” she kept saying, running up to Sónya. | |
Nicholas and Denísov were walking up and down, looking with kindly | |
patronage at the dancers. | |
“How sweet she is—she will be a weal beauty!” said Denísov. | |
“Who?” | |
“Countess Natásha,” answered Denísov. | |
“And how she dances! What gwace!” he said again after a pause. | |
“Who are you talking about?” | |
“About your sister,” ejaculated Denísov testily. | |
Rostóv smiled. | |
“My dear count, you were one of my best pupils—you must dance,” | |
said little Iogel coming up to Nicholas. “Look how many charming young | |
ladies—” He turned with the same request to Denísov who was also a | |
former pupil of his. | |
“No, my dear fellow, I’ll be a wallflower,” said Denísov. | |
“Don’t you wecollect what bad use I made of your lessons?” | |
“Oh no!” said Iogel, hastening to reassure him. “You were only | |
inattentive, but you had talent—oh yes, you had talent!” | |
The band struck up the newly introduced mazurka. Nicholas could not | |
refuse Iogel and asked Sónya to dance. Denísov sat down by the old | |
ladies and, leaning on his saber and beating time with his foot, told | |
them something funny and kept them amused, while he watched the young | |
people dancing, Iogel with Natásha, his pride and his best pupil, were | |
the first couple. Noiselessly, skillfully stepping with his little | |
feet in low shoes, Iogel flew first across the hall with Natásha, who, | |
though shy, went on carefully executing her steps. Denísov did not | |
take his eyes off her and beat time with his saber in a way that clearly | |
indicated that if he was not dancing it was because he would not and not | |
because he could not. In the middle of a figure he beckoned to Rostóv | |
who was passing: | |
“This is not at all the thing,” he said. “What sort of Polish | |
mazuwka is this? But she does dance splendidly.” | |
Knowing that Denísov had a reputation even in Poland for the masterly | |
way in which he danced the mazurka, Nicholas ran up to Natásha: | |
“Go and choose Denísov. He is a real dancer, a wonder!” he said. | |
When it came to Natásha’s turn to choose a partner, she rose and, | |
tripping rapidly across in her little shoes trimmed with bows, ran | |
timidly to the corner where Denísov sat. She saw that everybody was | |
looking at her and waiting. Nicholas saw that Denísov was refusing | |
though he smiled delightedly. He ran up to them. | |
“Please, Vasíli Dmítrich,” Natásha was saying, “do come!” | |
“Oh no, let me off, Countess,” Denísov replied. | |
“Now then, Váska,” said Nicholas. | |
“They coax me as if I were Váska the cat!” said Denísov jokingly. | |
“I’ll sing for you a whole evening,” said Natásha. | |
“Oh, the faiwy! She can do anything with me!” said Denísov, and | |
he unhooked his saber. He came out from behind the chairs, clasped his | |
partner’s hand firmly, threw back his head, and advanced his foot, | |
waiting for the beat. Only on horse back and in the mazurka was | |
Denísov’s short stature not noticeable and he looked the fine fellow | |
he felt himself to be. At the right beat of the music he looked sideways | |
at his partner with a merry and triumphant air, suddenly stamped with | |
one foot, bounded from the floor like a ball, and flew round the room | |
taking his partner with him. He glided silently on one foot half across | |
the room, and seeming not to notice the chairs was dashing straight at | |
them, when suddenly, clinking his spurs and spreading out his legs, | |
he stopped short on his heels, stood so a second, stamped on the spot | |
clanking his spurs, whirled rapidly round, and, striking his left heel | |
against his right, flew round again in a circle. Natásha guessed what | |
he meant to do, and abandoning herself to him followed his lead hardly | |
knowing how. First he spun her round, holding her now with his left, now | |
with his right hand, then falling on one knee he twirled her round him, | |
and again jumping up, dashed so impetuously forward that it seemed as if | |
he would rush through the whole suite of rooms without drawing breath, | |
and then he suddenly stopped and performed some new and unexpected | |
steps. When at last, smartly whirling his partner round in front of her | |
chair, he drew up with a click of his spurs and bowed to her, Natásha | |
did not even make him a curtsy. She fixed her eyes on him in amazement, | |
smiling as if she did not recognize him. | |
“What does this mean?” she brought out. | |
Although Iogel did not acknowledge this to be the real mazurka, everyone | |
was delighted with Denísov’s skill, he was asked again and again as | |
a partner, and the old men began smilingly to talk about Poland and the | |
good old days. Denísov, flushed after the mazurka and mopping himself | |
with his handkerchief, sat down by Natásha and did not leave her for | |
the rest of the evening. | |
CHAPTER XIII | |
For two days after that Rostóv did not see Dólokhov at his own or at | |
Dólokhov’s home: on the third day he received a note from him: | |
As I do not intend to be at your house again for reasons you know | |
of, and am going to rejoin my regiment, I am giving a farewell supper | |
tonight to my friends—come to the English Hotel. | |
About ten o’clock Rostóv went to the English Hotel straight from the | |
theater, where he had been with his family and Denísov. He was at once | |
shown to the best room, which Dólokhov had taken for that evening. Some | |
twenty men were gathered round a table at which Dólokhov sat between | |
two candles. On the table was a pile of gold and paper money, and he | |
was keeping the bank. Rostóv had not seen him since his proposal and | |
Sónya’s refusal and felt uncomfortable at the thought of how they | |
would meet. | |
Dólokhov’s clear, cold glance met Rostóv as soon as he entered the | |
door, as though he had long expected him. | |
“It’s a long time since we met,” he said. “Thanks for coming. | |
I’ll just finish dealing, and then Ilyúshka will come with his | |
chorus.” | |
“I called once or twice at your house,” said Rostóv, reddening. | |
Dólokhov made no reply. | |
“You may punt,” he said. | |
Rostóv recalled at that moment a strange conversation he had once had | |
with Dólokhov. “None but fools trust to luck in play,” Dólokhov | |
had then said. | |
“Or are you afraid to play with me?” Dólokhov now asked as if | |
guessing Rostóv’s thought. | |
Beneath his smile Rostóv saw in him the mood he had shown at the club | |
dinner and at other times, when as if tired of everyday life he had felt | |
a need to escape from it by some strange, and usually cruel, action. | |
Rostóv felt ill at ease. He tried, but failed, to find some joke with | |
which to reply to Dólokhov’s words. But before he had thought of | |
anything, Dólokhov, looking straight in his face, said slowly and | |
deliberately so that everyone could hear: | |
“Do you remember we had a talk about cards... ‘He’s a fool who | |
trusts to luck, one should make certain,’ and I want to try.” | |
“To try his luck or the certainty?” Rostóv asked himself. | |
“Well, you’d better not play,” Dólokhov added, and springing a | |
new pack of cards said: “Bank, gentlemen!” | |
Moving the money forward he prepared to deal. Rostóv sat down by his | |
side and at first did not play. Dólokhov kept glancing at him. | |
“Why don’t you play?” he asked. | |
And strange to say Nicholas felt that he could not help taking up a | |
card, putting a small stake on it, and beginning to play. | |
“I have no money with me,” he said. | |
“I’ll trust you.” | |
Rostóv staked five rubles on a card and lost, staked again, and again | |
lost. Dólokhov “killed,” that is, beat, ten cards of Rostóv’s | |
running. | |
“Gentlemen,” said Dólokhov after he had dealt for some time. | |
“Please place your money on the cards or I may get muddled in the | |
reckoning.” | |
One of the players said he hoped he might be trusted. | |
“Yes, you might, but I am afraid of getting the accounts mixed. So I | |
ask you to put the money on your cards,” replied Dólokhov. “Don’t | |
stint yourself, we’ll settle afterwards,” he added, turning to | |
Rostóv. | |
The game continued; a waiter kept handing round champagne. | |
All Rostóv’s cards were beaten and he had eight hundred rubles scored | |
up against him. He wrote “800 rubles” on a card, but while the | |
waiter filled his glass he changed his mind and altered it to his usual | |
stake of twenty rubles. | |
“Leave it,” said Dólokhov, though he did not seem to be even | |
looking at Rostóv, “you’ll win it back all the sooner. I lose to | |
the others but win from you. Or are you afraid of me?” he asked again. | |
Rostóv submitted. He let the eight hundred remain and laid down a seven | |
of hearts with a torn corner, which he had picked up from the floor. He | |
well remembered that seven afterwards. He laid down the seven of hearts, | |
on which with a broken bit of chalk he had written “800 rubles” in | |
clear upright figures; he emptied the glass of warm champagne that was | |
handed him, smiled at Dólokhov’s words, and with a sinking heart, | |
waiting for a seven to turn up, gazed at Dólokhov’s hands which held | |
the pack. Much depended on Rostóv’s winning or losing on that seven | |
of hearts. 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. Nicholas had | |
replied that it would be more than enough for him and that he gave his | |
word of honor not to take anything more till the spring. Now only twelve | |
hundred rubles was left of that money, so that this seven of hearts | |
meant for him not only the loss of sixteen hundred rubles, but the | |
necessity of going back on his word. With a sinking heart he watched | |
Dólokhov’s hands and thought, “Now then, make haste and let me have | |
this card and I’ll take my cap and drive home to supper with Denísov, | |
Natásha, and Sónya, and will certainly never touch a card again.” At | |
that moment his home life, jokes with Pétya, talks with Sónya, duets | |
with Natásha, piquet with his father, and even his comfortable bed | |
in the house on the Povarskáya rose before him with such vividness, | |
clearness, and charm that it seemed as if it were all a lost and | |
unappreciated bliss, long past. He could not conceive that a stupid | |
chance, letting the seven be dealt to the right rather than to the left, | |
might deprive him of all this happiness, newly appreciated and newly | |
illumined, and plunge him into the depths of unknown and undefined | |
misery. That could not be, yet he awaited with a sinking heart the | |
movement of Dólokhov’s hands. Those broad, reddish hands, with hairy | |
wrists visible from under the shirt cuffs, laid down the pack and took | |
up a glass and a pipe that were handed him. | |
“So you are not afraid to play with me?” repeated Dólokhov, and as | |
if about to tell a good story he put down the cards, leaned back in his | |
chair, and began deliberately with a smile: | |
“Yes, gentlemen, I’ve been told there’s a rumor going about Moscow | |
that I’m a sharper, so I advise you to be careful.” | |
“Come now, deal!” exclaimed Rostóv. | |
“Oh, those Moscow gossips!” said Dólokhov, and he took up the cards | |
with a smile. | |
“Aah!” Rostóv almost screamed lifting both hands to his head. The | |
seven he needed was lying uppermost, the first card in the pack. He had | |
lost more than he could pay. | |
“Still, don’t ruin yourself!” said Dólokhov with a side glance at | |
Rostóv as he continued to deal. | |
CHAPTER XIV | |
An hour and a half later most of the players were but little interested | |
in their own play. | |
The whole interest was concentrated on Rostóv. Instead of sixteen | |
hundred rubles he had a long column of figures scored against him, | |
which he had reckoned up to ten thousand, but that now, as he vaguely | |
supposed, must have risen to fifteen thousand. In reality it already | |
exceeded twenty thousand rubles. Dólokhov was no longer listening to | |
stories or telling them, but followed every movement of Rostóv’s | |
hands and occasionally ran his eyes over the score against him. He had | |
decided to play until that score reached forty-three thousand. He | |
had fixed on that number because forty-three was the sum of his and | |
Sónya’s joint ages. Rostóv, leaning his head on both hands, sat at | |
the table which was scrawled over with figures, wet with spilled wine, | |
and littered with cards. One tormenting impression did not leave him: | |
that those broad-boned reddish hands with hairy wrists visible from | |
under the shirt sleeves, those hands which he loved and hated, held him | |
in their power. | |
“Six hundred rubles, ace, a corner, a nine... winning it back’s | |
impossible... Oh, how pleasant it was at home!... The knave, double or | |
quits... it can’t be!... And why is he doing this to me?” Rostóv | |
pondered. Sometimes he staked a large sum, but Dólokhov refused to | |
accept it and fixed the stake himself. Nicholas submitted to him, and at | |
one moment prayed to God as he had done on the battlefield at the bridge | |
over the Enns, and then guessed that the card that came first to hand | |
from the crumpled heap under the table would save him, now counted the | |
cords on his coat and took a card with that number and tried staking the | |
total of his losses on it, then he looked round for aid from the other | |
players, or peered at the now cold face of Dólokhov and tried to read | |
what was passing in his mind. | |
“He knows of course what this loss means to me. He can’t want my | |
ruin. Wasn’t he my friend? Wasn’t I fond of him? But it’s not his | |
fault. What’s he to do if he has such luck?... And it’s not my fault | |
either,” he thought to himself, “I have done nothing wrong. Have I | |
killed anyone, or insulted or wished harm to anyone? Why such a terrible | |
misfortune? And when did it begin? Such a little while ago I came to | |
this table with the thought of winning a hundred rubles to buy that | |
casket for Mamma’s name day and then going home. I was so happy, so | |
free, so lighthearted! And I did not realize how happy I was! When did | |
that end and when did this new, terrible state of things begin? What | |
marked the change? I sat all the time in this same place at this table, | |
chose and placed cards, and watched those broad-boned agile hands in the | |
same way. When did it happen and what has happened? I am well and strong | |
and still the same and in the same place. No, it can’t be! Surely it | |
will all end in nothing!” | |
He was flushed and bathed in perspiration, though the room was not hot. | |
His face was terrible and piteous to see, especially from its helpless | |
efforts to seem calm. | |
The score against him reached the fateful sum of forty-three thousand. | |
Rostóv had just prepared a card, by bending the corner of which he | |
meant to double the three thousand just put down to his score, when | |
Dólokhov, slamming down the pack of cards, put it aside and began | |
rapidly adding up the total of Rostóv’s debt, breaking the chalk as | |
he marked the figures in his clear, bold hand. | |
“Supper, it’s time for supper! And here are the gypsies!” | |
Some swarthy men and women were really entering from the cold outside | |
and saying something in their gypsy accents. Nicholas understood that it | |
was all over; but he said in an indifferent tone: | |
“Well, won’t you go on? I had a splendid card all ready,” as if it | |
were the fun of the game which interested him most. | |
“It’s all up! I’m lost!” thought he. “Now a bullet through my | |
brain—that’s all that’s left me!” And at the same time he said | |
in a cheerful voice: | |
“Come now, just this one more little card!” | |
“All right!” said Dólokhov, having finished the addition. “All | |
right! Twenty-one rubles,” he said, pointing to the figure twenty-one | |
by which the total exceeded the round sum of forty-three thousand; and | |
taking up a pack he prepared to deal. Rostóv submissively unbent the | |
corner of his card and, instead of the six thousand he had intended, | |
carefully wrote twenty-one. | |
“It’s all the same to me,” he said. “I only want to see whether | |
you will let me win this ten, or beat it.” | |
Dólokhov began to deal seriously. Oh, how Rostóv detested at that | |
moment those hands with their short reddish fingers and hairy wrists, | |
which held him in their power.... The ten fell to him. | |
“You owe forty-three thousand, Count,” said Dólokhov, and | |
stretching himself he rose from the table. “One does get tired sitting | |
so long,” he added. | |
“Yes, I’m tired too,” said Rostóv. | |
Dólokhov cut him short, as if to remind him that it was not for him to | |
jest. | |
“When am I to receive the money, Count?” | |
Rostóv, flushing, drew Dólokhov into the next room. | |
“I cannot pay it all immediately. Will you take an I.O.U.?” he said. | |
“I say, Rostóv,” said Dólokhov clearly, smiling and looking | |
Nicholas straight in the eyes, “you know the saying, ‘Lucky in love, | |
unlucky at cards.’ Your cousin is in love with you, I know.” | |
“Oh, it’s terrible to feel oneself so in this man’s power,” | |
thought Rostóv. He knew what a shock he would inflict on his father and | |
mother by the news of this loss, he knew what a relief it would be to | |
escape it all, and felt that Dólokhov knew that he could save him from | |
all this shame and sorrow, but wanted now to play with him as a cat does | |
with a mouse. | |
“Your cousin...” Dólokhov started to say, but Nicholas interrupted | |
him. | |
“My cousin has nothing to do with this and it’s not necessary to | |
mention her!” he exclaimed fiercely. | |
“Then when am I to have it?” | |
“Tomorrow,” replied Rostóv and left the room. | |
CHAPTER XV | |
To say “tomorrow” and keep up a dignified tone was not difficult, | |
but to go home alone, see his sisters, brother, mother, and father, | |
confess and ask for money he had no right to after giving his word of | |
honor, was terrible. | |
At home, they had not yet gone to bed. The young people, after returning | |
from the theater, had had supper and were grouped round the clavichord. | |
As soon as Nicholas entered, he was enfolded in that poetic atmosphere | |
of love which pervaded the Rostóv household that winter and, now after | |
Dólokhov’s proposal and Iogel’s ball, seemed to have grown thicker | |
round Sónya and Natásha as the air does before a thunderstorm. Sónya | |
and Natásha, in the light-blue dresses they had worn at the theater, | |
looking pretty and conscious of it, were standing by the clavichord, | |
happy and smiling. Véra was playing chess with Shinshín in the drawing | |
room. The old countess, waiting for the return of her husband and son, | |
sat playing patience with the old gentlewoman who lived in their house. | |
Denísov, with sparkling eyes and ruffled hair, sat at the clavichord | |
striking chords with his short fingers, his legs thrown back and his | |
eyes rolling as he sang, with his small, husky, but true voice, some | |
verses called “Enchantress,” which he had composed, and to which he | |
was trying to fit music: | |
Enchantress, say, to my forsaken lyre | |
What magic power is this recalls me still? | |
What spark has set my inmost soul on fire, | |
What is this bliss that makes my fingers thrill? | |
He was singing in passionate tones, gazing with his sparkling | |
black-agate eyes at the frightened and happy Natásha. | |
“Splendid! Excellent!” exclaimed Natásha. “Another verse,” she | |
said, without noticing Nicholas. | |
“Everything’s still the same with them,” thought Nicholas, | |
glancing into the drawing room, where he saw Véra and his mother with | |
the old lady. | |
“Ah, and here’s Nicholas!” cried Natásha, running up to him. | |
“Is Papa at home?” he asked. | |
“I am so glad you’ve come!” said Natásha, without answering him. | |
“We are enjoying ourselves! Vasíli Dmítrich is staying a day longer | |
for my sake! Did you know?” | |
“No, Papa is not back yet,” said Sónya. | |
“Nicholas, have you come? Come here, dear!” called the old countess | |
from the drawing room. | |
Nicholas went to her, kissed her hand, and sitting down silently at her | |
table began to watch her hands arranging the cards. From the dancing | |
room, they still heard the laughter and merry voices trying to persuade | |
Natásha to sing. | |
“All wight! All wight!” shouted Denísov. “It’s no good making | |
excuses now! It’s your turn to sing the ba’cawolla—I entweat | |
you!” | |
The countess glanced at her silent son. | |
“What is the matter?” she asked. | |
“Oh, nothing,” said he, as if weary of being continually asked the | |
same question. “Will Papa be back soon?” | |
“I expect so.” | |
“Everything’s the same with them. They know nothing about it! Where | |
am I to go?” thought Nicholas, and went again into the dancing room | |
where the clavichord stood. | |
Sónya was sitting at the clavichord, playing the prelude to | |
Denísov’s favorite barcarolle. Natásha was preparing to sing. | |
Denísov was looking at her with enraptured eyes. | |
Nicholas began pacing up and down the room. | |
“Why do they want to make her sing? How can she sing? There’s | |
nothing to be happy about!” thought he. | |
Sónya struck the first chord of the prelude. | |
“My God, I’m a ruined and dishonored man! A bullet through my brain | |
is the only thing left me—not singing!” his thoughts ran on. “Go | |
away? But where to? It’s one—let them sing!” | |
He continued to pace the room, looking gloomily at Denísov and the | |
girls and avoiding their eyes. | |
“Nikólenka, what is the matter?” Sónya’s eyes fixed on him | |
seemed to ask. She noticed at once that something had happened to him. | |
Nicholas turned away from her. Natásha too, with her quick instinct, | |
had instantly noticed her brother’s condition. But, though she noticed | |
it, she was herself in such high spirits at that moment, so far from | |
sorrow, sadness, or self-reproach, that she purposely deceived herself | |
as young people often do. “No, I am too happy now to spoil my | |
enjoyment by sympathy with anyone’s sorrow,” she felt, and she said | |
to herself: “No, I must be mistaken, he must be feeling happy, just as | |
I am.” | |
“Now, Sónya!” she said, going to the very middle of the room, where | |
she considered the resonance was best. | |
Having lifted her head and let her arms droop lifelessly, as ballet | |
dancers do, Natásha, rising energetically from her heels to her toes, | |
stepped to the middle of the room and stood still. | |
“Yes, that’s me!” she seemed to say, answering the rapt gaze with | |
which Denísov followed her. | |
“And what is she so pleased about?” thought Nicholas, looking at his | |
sister. “Why isn’t she dull and ashamed?” | |
Natásha took the first note, her throat swelled, her chest rose, | |
her eyes became serious. At that moment she was oblivious of her | |
surroundings, and from her smiling lips flowed sounds which anyone may | |
produce at the same intervals and hold for the same time, but which | |
leave you cold a thousand times and the thousand and first time thrill | |
you and make you weep. | |
Natásha, that winter, had for the first time begun to sing seriously, | |
mainly because Denísov so delighted in her singing. She no longer sang | |
as a child, there was no longer in her singing that comical, childish, | |
painstaking effect that had been in it before; but she did not yet sing | |
well, as all the connoisseurs who heard her said: “It is not trained, | |
but it is a beautiful voice that must be trained.” Only they generally | |
said this some time after she had finished singing. While that untrained | |
voice, with its incorrect breathing and labored transitions, was | |
sounding, even the connoisseurs said nothing, but only delighted in | |
it and wished to hear it again. In her voice there was a virginal | |
freshness, an unconsciousness of her own powers, and an as yet untrained | |
velvety softness, which so mingled with her lack of art in singing that | |
it seemed as if nothing in that voice could be altered without spoiling | |
it. | |
“What is this?” thought Nicholas, listening to her with widely | |
opened eyes. “What has happened to her? How she is singing today!” | |
And suddenly the whole world centered for him on anticipation of the | |
next note, the next phrase, and everything in the world was divided into | |
three beats: “Oh mio crudele affetto.”... One, two, three... one, | |
two, three... One... “Oh mio crudele affetto.”... One, two, three... | |
One. “Oh, this senseless life of ours!” thought Nicholas. “All | |
this misery, and money, and Dólokhov, and anger, and honor—it’s all | |
nonsense... but this is real.... Now then, Natásha, now then, dearest! | |
Now then, darling! How will she take that si? She’s taken it! Thank | |
God!” And without noticing that he was singing, to strengthen the si | |
he sung a second, a third below the high note. “Ah, God! How fine! Did | |
I really take it? How fortunate!” he thought. | |
Oh, how that chord vibrated, and how moved was something that was finest | |
in Rostóv’s soul! And this something was apart from everything else | |
in the world and above everything in the world. “What were losses, and | |
Dólokhov, and words of honor?... All nonsense! One might kill and rob | |
and yet be happy....” | |
CHAPTER XVI | |
It was long since Rostóv had felt such enjoyment from music as he | |
did that day. But no sooner had Natásha finished her barcarolle than | |
reality again presented itself. He got up without saying a word and went | |
downstairs to his own room. A quarter of an hour later the old count | |
came in from his club, cheerful and contented. Nicholas, hearing him | |
drive up, went to meet him. | |
“Well—had a good time?” said the old count, smiling gaily and | |
proudly at his son. | |
Nicholas tried to say “Yes,” but could not: and he nearly burst into | |
sobs. The count was lighting his pipe and did not notice his son’s | |
condition. | |
“Ah, it can’t be avoided!” thought Nicholas, for the first and | |
last time. And suddenly, in the most casual tone, which made him feel | |
ashamed of himself, he said, as if merely asking his father to let him | |
have the carriage to drive to town: | |
“Papa, I have come on a matter of business. I was nearly forgetting. I | |
need some money.” | |
“Dear me!” said his father, who was in a specially good humor. “I | |
told you it would not be enough. How much?” | |
“Very much,” said Nicholas flushing, and with a stupid careless | |
smile, for which he was long unable to forgive himself, “I have lost a | |
little, I mean a good deal, a great deal—forty three thousand.” | |
“What! To whom?... Nonsense!” cried the count, suddenly reddening | |
with an apoplectic flush over neck and nape as old people do. | |
“I promised to pay tomorrow,” said Nicholas. | |
“Well!...” said the old count, spreading out his arms and sinking | |
helplessly on the sofa. | |
“It can’t be helped! It happens to everyone!” said the son, with | |
a bold, free, and easy tone, while in his soul he regarded himself as a | |
worthless scoundrel whose whole life could not atone for his crime. He | |
longed to kiss his father’s hands and kneel to beg his forgiveness, | |
but said, in a careless and even rude voice, that it happens to | |
everyone! | |
The old count cast down his eyes on hearing his son’s words and began | |
bustlingly searching for something. | |
“Yes, yes,” he muttered, “it will be difficult, I fear, difficult | |
to raise... happens to everybody! Yes, who has not done it?” | |
And with a furtive glance at his son’s face, the count went out of the | |
room.... Nicholas had been prepared for resistance, but had not at all | |
expected this. | |
“Papa! Pa-pa!” he called after him, sobbing, “forgive me!” And | |
seizing his father’s hand, he pressed it to his lips and burst into | |
tears. | |
While father and son were having their explanation, the mother and | |
daughter were having one not less important. Natásha came running to | |
her mother, quite excited. | |
“Mamma!... Mamma!... He has made me...” | |
“Made what?” | |
“Made, made me an offer, Mamma! Mamma!” she exclaimed. | |
The countess did not believe her ears. Denísov had proposed. To whom? | |
To this chit of a girl, Natásha, who not so long ago was playing with | |
dolls and who was still having lessons. | |
“Don’t, Natásha! What nonsense!” she said, hoping it was a joke. | |
“Nonsense, indeed! I am telling you the fact,” said Natásha | |
indignantly. “I come to ask you what to do, and you call it | |
‘nonsense!’” | |
The countess shrugged her shoulders. | |
“If it is true that Monsieur Denísov has made you a proposal, tell | |
him he is a fool, that’s all!” | |
“No, he’s not a fool!” replied Natásha indignantly and seriously. | |
“Well then, what do you want? You’re all in love nowadays. Well, | |
if you are in love, marry him!” said the countess, with a laugh of | |
annoyance. “Good luck to you!” | |
“No, Mamma, I’m not in love with him, I suppose I’m not in love | |
with him.” | |
“Well then, tell him so.” | |
“Mamma, are you cross? Don’t be cross, dear! Is it my fault?” | |
“No, but what is it, my dear? Do you want me to go and tell him?” | |
said the countess smiling. | |
“No, I will do it myself, only tell me what to say. It’s all very | |
well for you,” said Natásha, with a responsive smile. “You should | |
have seen how he said it! I know he did not mean to say it, but it came | |
out accidently.” | |
“Well, all the same, you must refuse him.” | |
“No, I mustn’t. I am so sorry for him! He’s so nice.” | |
“Well then, accept his offer. It’s high time for you to be | |
married,” answered the countess sharply and sarcastically. | |
“No, Mamma, but I’m so sorry for him. I don’t know how I’m to | |
say it.” | |
“And there’s nothing for you to say. I shall speak to him myself,” | |
said the countess, indignant that they should have dared to treat this | |
little Natásha as grown up. | |
“No, not on any account! I will tell him myself, and you’ll listen | |
at the door,” and Natásha ran across the drawing room to the dancing | |
hall, where Denísov was sitting on the same chair by the clavichord | |
with his face in his hands. | |
He jumped up at the sound of her light step. | |
“Nataly,” he said, moving with rapid steps toward her, “decide my | |
fate. It is in your hands.” | |
“Vasíli Dmítrich, I’m so sorry for you!... No, but you are so | |
nice... but it won’t do...not that... but as a friend, I shall always | |
love you.” | |
Denísov bent over her hand and she heard strange sounds she did not | |
understand. She kissed his rough curly black head. At this instant, they | |
heard the quick rustle of the countess’ dress. She came up to them. | |
“Vasíli Dmítrich, I thank you for the honor,” she said, with an | |
embarrassed voice, though it sounded severe to Denísov—“but my | |
daughter is so young, and I thought that, as my son’s friend, you | |
would have addressed yourself first to me. In that case you would not | |
have obliged me to give this refusal.” | |
“Countess...” said Denísov, with downcast eyes and a guilty face. | |
He tried to say more, but faltered. | |
Natásha could not remain calm, seeing him in such a plight. She began | |
to sob aloud. | |
“Countess, I have done w’ong,” Denísov went on in an unsteady | |
voice, “but believe me, I so adore your daughter and all your family | |
that I would give my life twice over...” He looked at the countess, | |
and seeing her severe face said: “Well, good-by, Countess,” and | |
kissing her hand, he left the room with quick resolute strides, without | |
looking at Natásha. | |
Next day Rostóv saw Denísov off. He did not wish to stay another | |
day in Moscow. All Denísov’s Moscow friends gave him a farewell | |
entertainment at the gypsies’, with the result that he had no | |
recollection of how he was put in the sleigh or of the first three | |
stages of his journey. | |
After Denísov’s departure, Rostóv spent another fortnight in Moscow, | |
without going out of the house, waiting for the money his father could | |
not at once raise, and he spent most of his time in the girls’ room. | |
Sónya was more tender and devoted to him than ever. It was as if she | |
wanted to show him that his losses were an achievement that made her | |
love him all the more, but Nicholas now considered himself unworthy of | |
her. | |
He filled the girls’ albums with verses and music, and having at last | |
sent Dólokhov the whole forty-three thousand rubles and received his | |
receipt, he left at the end of November, without taking leave of any of | |
his acquaintances, to overtake his regiment which was already in Poland. | |
BOOK FIVE: 1806 - 07 | |
CHAPTER I | |
After his interview with his wife Pierre left for Petersburg. At the | |
Torzhók post station, either there were no horses or the postmaster | |
would not supply them. Pierre was obliged to wait. Without undressing, | |
he lay down on the leather sofa in front of a round table, put his big | |
feet in their overboots on the table, and began to reflect. | |
“Will you have the portmanteaus brought in? And a bed got ready, and | |
tea?” asked his valet. | |
Pierre gave no answer, for he neither heard nor saw anything. He had | |
begun to think of the last station and was still pondering on the same | |
question—one so important that he took no notice of what went | |
on around him. Not only was he indifferent as to whether he got to | |
Petersburg earlier or later, or whether he secured accommodation at this | |
station, but compared to the thoughts that now occupied him it was a | |
matter of indifference whether he remained there for a few hours or for | |
the rest of his life. | |
The postmaster, his wife, the valet, and a peasant woman selling | |
Torzhók embroidery came into the room offering their services. | |
Without changing his careless attitude, Pierre looked at them over his | |
spectacles unable to understand what they wanted or how they could go on | |
living without having solved the problems that so absorbed him. He had | |
been engrossed by the same thoughts ever since the day he returned from | |
Sokólniki after the duel and had spent that first agonizing, sleepless | |
night. But now, in the solitude of the journey, they seized him with | |
special force. No matter what he thought about, he always returned to | |
these same questions which he could not solve and yet could not cease to | |
ask himself. It was as if the thread of the chief screw which held his | |
life together were stripped, so that the screw could not get in or out, | |
but went on turning uselessly in the same place. | |
The postmaster came in and began obsequiously to beg his excellency to | |
wait only two hours, when, come what might, he would let his excellency | |
have the courier horses. It was plain that he was lying and only wanted | |
to get more money from the traveler. | |
“Is this good or bad?” Pierre asked himself. “It is good for me, | |
bad for another traveler, and for himself it’s unavoidable, because | |
he needs money for food; the man said an officer had once given him a | |
thrashing for letting a private traveler have the courier horses. | |
But the officer thrashed him because he had to get on as quickly as | |
possible. And I,” continued Pierre, “shot Dólokhov because I | |
considered myself injured, and Louis XVI was executed because they | |
considered him a criminal, and a year later they executed those who | |
executed him—also for some reason. What is bad? What is good? What | |
should one love and what hate? What does one live for? And what am I? | |
What is life, and what is death? What power governs all?” | |
There was no answer to any of these questions, except one, and that | |
not a logical answer and not at all a reply to them. The answer was: | |
“You’ll die and all will end. You’ll die and know all, or cease | |
asking.” But dying was also dreadful. | |
The Torzhók peddler woman, in a whining voice, went on offering her | |
wares, especially a pair of goatskin slippers. “I have hundreds of | |
rubles I don’t know what to do with, and she stands in her tattered | |
cloak looking timidly at me,” he thought. “And what does she | |
want the money for? As if that money could add a hair’s breadth to | |
happiness or peace of mind. Can anything in the world make her or me | |
less a prey to evil and death?—death which ends all and must come | |
today or tomorrow—at any rate, in an instant as compared with | |
eternity.” And again he twisted the screw with the stripped thread, | |
and again it turned uselessly in the same place. | |
His servant handed him a half-cut novel, in the form of letters, by | |
Madame de Souza. He began reading about the suffer |
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